


Hijink.

by random_flores



Category: Devil Wears Prada (2006), Get Smart (Movie)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-07 05:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 64,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/427379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/random_flores/pseuds/random_flores
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Worlds collide when Agent 99 and Maxwell Smart chase Rogue Agent 23 to a charity auction, and discover the inspiration for Agent 99's new face: Andy. Now, a case of mistaken identity has Andrea kidnapped, Max befuddled, and Miranda Priestly pissed off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Secret Agent (Wo)man

While Miranda Priestly could have easily made a phone call to any number of magazines or designers and placed the girl as far away as _Runway Italy_ , Emily had been promoted from first assistant to a coordinator in the accessories division of Runway nearly a year ago. 

Miranda had not regretted the promotion. For all her insecurity and paranoia, the girl truly did have an impeccable, if not slightly outlandish, flair for style. And facts were facts. Although Miranda would never admit this out loud, she was well aware of her age. She wasn't getting any younger. It made sense to surround herself with young, eccentric types with loyalty to her. Objectively, professionally, keeping Emily at _Runway_ had been the smart decision. 

Personally, she had never been more irritated. 

"I've taken care of all of it, Miranda!" the young woman said, fingers twitching as they tangled together at the front of Emily's couture gown, reminding Miranda of a dog settled on it's haunches, waiting for a treat. 

Unafraid to her hide her irritation, Miranda tossed a glance to Beth, the pushed aside first assistant who made no secret of her wish to throw Emily into a fountain. 

"I wasn't aware that was your job," she pointed out tersely, loud enough for the unusually timid girl to hear. 

"Well, of course not, but I'm happy to do it!"

"Emily, it's not your job," said an exasperated Beth, finally. Miranda's jaw clamped, and the glare she received would have withered the girl, had her assistant not been so ready to throttle Emily. "I've told you three times, I've taken care of it! You're going over my head and messing it up all up-"

"Well, you'll miss something. You always do. Why on earth Miranda hired you-" 

One glance at them both sent the pair into sputtering quiet. 

Immediately, Beth was at her shoulders, removing her wrap and delicately draping it over her forearm. 

"I trust everything is in order?" she asked pointedly, quiet enough for only Beth to hear. The brunette nodded too enthusiastically, reminding Miranda irritatingly of a chicken. 

"Of course, Miranda. Tom Ford is coming your way." 

The smile pasted on her face was plastic and impeccable, head bobbing as she nodded politely to Tom Ford, looking dapper and cocky as he grinned in her direction. "I want my driver outside in twenty minutes," she ordered quietly, and then held out her hand. "Tom!" 

"Miranda!" Smooth lips pressed to her bare fingers, and so the pleasantries began. 

Miranda Priestly's expression never wavered. Her hair was perfect. Her clothes, as always, glamorous and designed especially for her, fit her supple figure like a glove, and her skin was flawless and glowing.

Fashion was about image, after all. Image was what mattered. 

Underneath the facade Miranda Priestly was most definitely NOT sweating. Nor was she the least bit disturbed, bothered or thrown by the fact that Andrea Sachs had just entered the room. 

Not one bit. 

\-- 

Agent 99 had a name once. The hair that flowed down her shoulders in shimmering, glossy curls had been blonde, not brunette. When she frowned, as she had a habit of doing, she had been told her by her father that she was the very picture of her beautiful, late mother. 

Agent 99 did not do regret. She understood choices and consequences, and although she was well aware of the fact that she could be rash, cocky and surprisingly naïve when it came to men, she knew she had done what had to be done. 

It still surprised her, however, to wake up and look in the bathroom mirror and discover a brunette stranger staring back at her, with big brown eyes and pouty lips. 

She had spent hours after the bandages had been removed and the bruises had faded, memorizing the new face, poking at new features and pigment, trying hard to push down the lingering resentment that had forced this change in favor of discovering how to best use what she was given for her job. 

And there were worse faces to get stuck with. The look had taken some getting used to, but the surgeons had done their job. She was genuinely pretty. Beautiful, even. And there was a hint of normalness underneath. Nothing too plastic or too obviously tucked. Just an average beautiful girl with pale skin. Perfect for her line of work. 

But the bitterness had a habit of creeping up on her when she least expected it. Sometimes poor Max bore the brunt of that frustration, but at the very least, this time, 99 had found a keeper in the lovable doof, who was honest enough to tell her she was beautiful. It hurt, deep down, until that one moment he looked at her and she realized he had been looking at all of her, not just her face. 

It made it easier. He made her happy, even. 

The high pitched squeal that nearly burst her eardrums, however, did not. "God-dammit, MAX!" she snapped, turning away from the crowded room and the appreciative eyes of strangers to hide her painful grimace as best she could. "You don't have to shout!" 

Unfortunately, her rookie agent lover had yet to learn the finer art of using normal decibels when speaking into the tooth microphone. Still, she should have been grateful for small favors. He had yet to swallow the damn thing. Again.

"99," she heard, in that over-excited tone her lover always used, because this was still so new it was thrilling for him. "I've secured the cameras. Control is all tapped in now." 

"That's great, Max," she whispered to the plants, and reluctantly allowed herself to smile as she rubbed at her ear. 

"I'm heading to the main room now. We'll get him this time, 99." 

"Okay Max," she said, and because her ear was already ringing and this roomful of people didn't need to see a beautiful stranger speaking to herself like a lunatic, added, "I'm turning off my mike. Meet you here in five." 

It wasn't an option that they fail at this, but 99 still wasn't so sure they were going to succeed. Agent 23 had been their best agent. He had been handsome, charming, and a surprisingly inadequate lover. He had also been a traitor to their country, and had nearly killed them both the last time he tried to blow up the President and most of Los Angeles. 

All they had was chatter Intel gathered inferencing that he had a new face (thanks to the last one getting blown up), and possibly an appearance at this charity auction. Not even enough for a full assault. It was just her and Max here. 

Well, that was how she liked it. 

"Oh my GOD!" 

The outburst forced her attention away from crowded hall and instead to an impossibly skinny woman in a silver dress, staring pale-faced at her, mouth open like a gaping fish. 

"Hello?" she tried.

"What on EARTH are you doing here?!" 

A surge of adrenaline burst into her, causing a sudden hitch in breath. Had her cover been blown already? Body tense, she studied the woman, ransacking her mind for any possible clue as to who had marked her. Obvious British accent. Freckles covered carefully foundation. 

But her arms were on her hips, and there was no gun in them. Too much rage glittered at her from those colored eyes to be anything but familiar, but 99 had never seen this woman in her life. 

The girl stomped forward, teetering on her ridiculous shoes, looking her up and down. "You need to leave. Who gave you permission to be here!" 

Before 99 could help it, fingers flashed forward and gripped her elbow like little pincers. Heels dug into the carpet, and she was being dragged roughly to the side door from which she had just emerged. 

Confused, 99 allowed it, until the door closed behind them and they were presented with an empty hallway, away from the crowds and the witnesses. Then, and only then, did she reach for the other girl's wrists, grabbing hold with brute force, and wrenching up to jerk the fingers off her hand. Already, her skin was bruising from the force. 

"What are you doing?" she hissed. "Who are you?" 

"Oh, very funny," came the hot response, and once again, the fingers were back on her wrist with a death grip. "Get over here. Good lord - you're even fatter than before!" 

It was the weirdest insult she had ever gotten, and that included Max's 'dusty old uterus' comment and 23's 'unfeminine' snap before she had kicked him in the face. 

And she was not fat. 

"What on earth made you think you had any right?" The other woman just kept going, face blotchy red from her emotion, as her hand rose up, cutting herself off. "I don't even want to know. Andy-" 

"Andy," she repeated, eyes narrowing. 

"-You need to leave immediately! This is a very important event for Miranda and I will NOT have her upset by the presence of you - you... traitor!" 

"Traitor." The unease was drifting rapidly into annoyance, because this girl was clearly not a threat. Possibly deranged, but not a threat. Still, she couldn't relax, not yet. Whether the girl was obviously nuts or not, she really did think she was speaking to someone named Andy. 

And to be recognized, even by an alias, was never a good thing. 

But she had never used an alias named Andy. 

"Oh, are we a monkey now? Do we just repeat things? You need to go, I'm calling security-" 

Her gaze rose sharply. "No," she said immediately. The last thing she needed was an hour with hotel cops. And Max was on his way. "Don't do that." 

It was apparently the wrong thing to say. The expression actually turned haughty as brows rose into a tight forehead in challenge. "Oh, do you think you can tell me what to do?" Already, she was digging into her wristlet, pulling out a slim phone. 

Oh, she didn't have time for this. "Seriously. Don't do that. Let's have a discussion." 

"We'll see what the guards have to say-" The girl began to dial. 

99 lost patience. Without a word she moved forward, palm wrapped around the girl's throat and slamming her hard into the wall behind her. The squeak of protest became a near whimper when 99 grabbed the phone from the flailing fingers and then carefully snapped her own wrist. 

Immediately, the woman slumped forward, head falling into the crook of her shoulder, and arms settled around her neck. 

The door opened and a pudgy man in a black tie blinked at her, and the intimate picture they presented. 

"Lesbians," he muttered, and shook his head, ambling past them as he added, "You need Christ." 

\--

_What are you doing here?_

In any other situation, getting a text from Miranda Priestly would have been borderline hilarious and inconceivable. One just did not get texts from Miranda Priestly. One got texts from Miranda Priestly's assistants or one of her many minions, but the woman herself would never deign to actually flip out her Blackberry and press her perfectly manicured fingernails to little buttons with letters on them. 

Unless, of course, you were Andrea Sachs, Miranda Priestly's former assistant, current lover, and future murder victim. 

The buzz had been unexpected, but the message was not. Miranda's question blinking at her from the little window on her Apple Iphone left no room for inference or interpretation, because despite the fact that it was only one sentence long, the rest of Miranda's forthcoming rant was crystal clear: _What are you doing here? I specifically told you three times that under no circumstances were you supposed to show up at this event._

She could hear the words in her head as if Miranda was standing there herself, glaring down at her with that intoxicatingly vicious stare. 

Christ, she wasn't even in the main reception hall yet. How the hell had Miranda even gotten wind that she had shown up? 

Biting down on her bottom lip, Andrea Sachs brushed her curls out of her face and did her best to breathe. Logic, she had learned quite early on in this idiotic affair of theirs, often played little to no part in Miranda's thought processes, despite the fact that she seemed to pride herself in being an intensely rational woman. 

Unless you happened to be her former assistant and engaged in a secret torrid affair. 

Then of course, it was perfectly reasonable to demand that your lover stay away from functions she was assigned to, simply because the idea of her being there 'wouldn't allow' Miranda 'to think straight'.

Once again, the flush of anger began to creep up her neck, and with a hint of conviction, she slammed her phone back in its case and dug it back in her purse. She would not dignify that text with a response. This was her job, and if Miranda couldn't concentrate, that was her damned problem. 

Despite the fact that her heart was fluttering so rapidly in her chest she couldn't quite breathe, Andrea Sachs was going to manage just fine. Just to prove a point. Because her life did NOT revolve around Miranda Priestly and her idiotic demands, not anymore. 

Even if she was sleeping with her now. And dodging questions from her friends about who she was dating. And sneaking in and out of cheap hotel rooms. And catching herself saying, "Yes, Miranda" like a robot. 

Good God, what on earth had ever given her the impression that this was a good idea? 

"Nothing," she whispered valiantly, losing control for a moment, as palms went up to smooth over her bare neck, trying to cool herself down. "Absolutely nothing, because Miranda Priestly is a jerk." 

"I wouldn't say that too loud." Shoulders jerking, Andy glanced up sharply. Beaming down at her was a handsome, well built man, a glass of champagne in each hand. "Some people might get the wrong impression." A playful smirk played on his lips, and he craned his head toward the waning crowd around them, making their way from the bar into the ballroom. 

"Oh." Flushing, Andy once again cursed her temper. For some damned reason, Miranda managed to bring out the worst in her, even when she wasn't around. And damn her for that. "Sorry," she managed, hoping her smile came off as sheepish and not guilty. "I was... you know..." she couldn't even finish the sentence. "Right," she ended lamely. 

"And what do you have against Miranda Priestly?" She blinked uncomfortably, but before she could answer, his manners caught up with him. "You know what? Forget it. It's none of my business. The smile lingered, however, and he made no move to turn away. He simply just... regarded her. 

The embarrassment gave way to a tiny hint of self-conscious confusion. "What?" she asked. 

An index finger stretched from the champagne glass, tilting in her direction. "Don't I know you from somewhere?" 

A flirt, then. A handsome flirt who obviously expected a reaction. 

"No," she answered firmly, and then nearly jumped when her phone started buzzing again, this time from within the confines of her purse. Smile straining, she endeavored to ignore it. "I think I would have remembered." 

"Yeah, I think I would have remembered too." He grinned, showing perfectly white teeth, and Andy bit down a sigh, resisting the urge to roll her eyes at the charismatic display. "Dwayne," he introduced himself, and held out a champagne glass in lieu of a handshake. "And you look like you need this. You seem jumpy... what's your name?"

"Oh, right." Apparently Miranda had not only infuriated her, but erased any sense of propriety. "I'm Andy. Andy Sachs. Thanks for the champagne." 

"Andy," he repeated, mulling the word over. "Interesting. So, tell me, _Andy_ , what brings you here?" 

"Oh, I work for the Register," she answered as politely as she could.

"A writer," he said, sounding inappropriately fascinated. "How inventive." Andy's smile stalled. He was being more than just coy. The man looked as if he was playing a joke, and she was in on it. It was vaguely creepy. 

Glancing toward the entrance to the ballroom, she managed another polite nod. "I'm sorry, I really don't know you." 

That, oddly enough, resulted in an even bigger grin than before. "You seem surprised by that." 

Prickles of curiosity shifted into annoyance. "It just seems like you expect me to know who you are. I really don't, I'm sorry. I do meet a lot of people on my job." 

"No offense taken. I'm sure you do. I do the same. Maybe we've just crossed paths, at one of these many events." Raising his glass to her in an informal toast, he took a sip. Feeling obligated, Andy did the same. 

The wine was surprisingly bitter on her tongue, and it took a moment to mask the grimace as she nodded back politely. "I'm sure that's it." 

He grinned. "Well, Andy. I have an original Dali I have my eye on, so I better check in, but I do hope to see you again." 

There it was again. That hidden connotation to his voice that hinted that they were having some unspoken conversation she had no idea they were having. And it was getting creepier. Time to shut it down. 

"You should know I'm seeing someone." 

At last, the smile stalled. "No kidding. I'm sure he's a lucky man." The edge of the words were bitten, as if the man was chewing them in his mouth, preparing to spit them out at her. 

Evidently not used to rejection. 

"Lovely to meet you, Dwayne."

"The same to you, Andy. Enjoy your champagne." 

Dark fabric brushed against her bare shoulders as he weaved around her, and then he was gone, disappearing with the crowds into the ballroom. 

For such a handsome guy, the revulsion he caused inside of her was astounding. 

"God," she breathed. Four months of sex with Miranda and she was suddenly gayer than Ellen Degeneres. Dizzied by the concept, she knocked back another gulp of champagne, and once again winced at the taste. "Blech. Obviously the $500 ticket was not spent on beverages." Leaning over, she flung the rest of the contents of the glass into the potted plant nearby. 

And promptly yelped when strange hands landed firmly on her hips. Whirling around, Andy's heart jackknifed into her throat when she found herself in the arms of a brunette man. 

"There you are, 99! You said you'd be in the ballroom! Why weren't you responding to your radio?" 

The sentence made absolutely no sense. "What are you doing?" she squeaked, startled into submission, still clutching her empty glass. 

A flash of insecurity drifted over the man's features, before he suddenly rolled his eyes and said, "Honestly, 99! We're working. Fine. Just a little one." 

"Listen-mmph!" Her eyes grew round as saucers when large hands palmed her face and suddenly large lips mashed against hers. 

Instinct merged with panic, and before she could help it, the glass smashed against the side of his head. 

\-- 

This would simply NOT do. 

It was over. 

There was no other option. 

Andrea Sachs was simply not allowed to have this power over her. It was infuriating. It was revolting. 

It was humiliating. 

What was she doing, honestly? Slinking to the bathroom to text her lover like some fifteen year old school girl? Standing ramrod straight in the middle of the ballroom, barely able to concentrate on anything Alexander McQueen babbled at her (and wasn't it always the same? Rape and bondage and wasn't it all so terribly fashionable? The man was a bore.), searching the room as calmly and subtly as she dared, searching for a flash of brunette, the magnetic pull of luminous brown eyes, the splash of red against full lips. 

She would find Andrea Sachs, and then she would kill her. Wrench her limb from limb, eviscerate her completely. It would make her feel infinitely better, because this would simply NOT do. 

"I'm sorry, are you looking for someone?" 

Head turning, Miranda found her irritation increased ten fold when Alexander looked at her quizzically, searching behind him as if he could find the root of Miranda's distraction. 

"Of course not," she murmured, with a smile that was meant to appease, and not drain of McQueen of all color. Blasted Andrea Sachs. "You were saying?" 

Pale as a ghost, he made a show of checking his watch. "Actually? I'm really late for something. Would you excuse me? Lovely to see you again, Miranda." 

And he was gone. For all his talk about gothic darkness inspiring his new ready-to-wear men's collection, he frightened disturbingly easy. 

"Beth," she said, so softly it was barely spoken. Nevertheless, the trembling girl appeared immediately at her shoulder. 

"Yes, Miranda?" 

"I want the car outside in ten minutes." That would be how long it would take to find Andrea, drag her into a closet, box her ears, and then direct her to take a cab to meet her at her townhouse so Miranda could unleash her tirade properly. 

"Of course, Miranda, the only thing is they made Roy park really far away and with all the stops it might take-" Beth's rambling ceased immediately when caught in Miranda's glare. The mouth snapped shut. "Of course." 

"And find me Emily," she added quietly, because Beth was clearly useless. Without another look, Miranda moved toward the paintings, teeth gritting together in the best smile she could manage under the circumstances. 

"Beautiful painting, isn't it?" Appearing at her side was a handsome, dark man, sipping from a glass of champagne and indicating the painting that she was now facing. 

Inhaling through her nose, Miranda glanced at the Dali masterpiece. 

"The Veiled Heart," he continued, admiring the work. "I adore Dali, don't you?" 

Where on earth was Beth? She had no idea who this man was. 

Miranda Priestly's eyes once again darted to the door, and then back again. "Of course," she said, with an air of conversational disinterest. 

"All about the illusion with him. I find that fascinating." 

_How droll_. "Indeed," she sniffed, eyes floating to the dark tattoo barely hidden underneath the open collar of his well-tailored suit. A model, perhaps? "Yes, I do find it rather fascinating, the way things are seldom what they appear to be." 

"I knew you would." His lips creased into a smile. "Not unlike fashion, right, Miranda?" After a silent moment, he bowed his head cordially. "Dwayne Johnson. Private collector. But a big fan of your work as well." 

Ah, rich gay playboy then. "A fan of _Runway_ , Mr. Johnson?" 

"More a fan of image, Ms. Priestly." 

Miranda would wait no longer. Andrea Sachs had already reduced her to texting (three times! Unheard of!), and the blasted woman _would_ , in some idiotic display of spunk, attempt to stick around just for her own stubborn ends. 

Then again, it would serve Andrea right. To see Miranda adored, admired. To be completely ignored when she clearly wanted to get a rise out of her. 

"I see." Her lips quirked into a charming smirk. "And do you have designs on this painting, then?" 

\--

She found a small closet at the edge of the hallway. Used for utilities, it reeked of cleaner. 99 edged up the skirt of her dress and peered into the freckled face of her unintended captive.

Green eyes blinked blearily at her. 

"Andy?" The accented voice, weak from her faint whispered faintly. "What are you doing?" Feeble hands struggled with the white plastic ties that were now binding her wrists together. "Did you tie me up?" 

"Shut up," she said automatically. 

The phone that had been in an interesting hiding place on the girl's thigh had revealed her name to be Emily. There was a myriad of other names in the address book, but no Andy. There was, however, an Andrea Sachs. 

"Miranda will murder you for this." 

Grimacing, 99 scrolled through the names until she found 'MIRANDA PRIESTLY' under the call log. She had been called at the very least, five times today. 

And even she knew that name. 

"Of all the gall-" Now, the girl was actively moving, struggling to get to her feet even though her ankles were bound as well. "Well, this is just ridiculous. Andy what are you doing?!" 

With a powerful shove, the woman teetered back on her ass.

"I said keep quiet."

A quick Google on her phone revealed a series of articles written by an 'Andy Sachs', reporter at the _New York Register_.

There also was a picture. 

Dumbfounded, 99's fingers clenched her phone. 

"God-dammit."

\--


	2. The Devil Wears John Galliano

_"Max, come in. I think we have a very big problem."_

The world was skittering slightly, and Maxwell Smart was seeing stars. 

He had a concussion. That had to be the only explanation. 

There was no other reason for him to be sprawled out on his back surrounded by people, with a mutely horrified 99 looking down at him, and yet somehow still radioing static in his ear. 

"Is he okay?" 

Definitely a concussion. Pushing to his feet, he winced, taking a moment to reach up and press tentatively to the side of his head, hoping for no blood. 

"I’m so, so sorry," said the 99 looking down at him. 

_"Max?"_ said the 99 in his ear. _"Can you hear me?"_

He cleared his throat, opened his mouth. Then closed it again. Swallowed for good measure. 

Which caused a choking fit, as the tooth mike, jarred loose from his fall, sank down his esophagus. 

Not good. 

"Oh, my God! What if he's having a seizure!" 

A large man in a suit reached down and helped him up, and he closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. 

He winced.

"Is he okay?" he heard again. 

"I'm not sure," came another voice. The 99 that attacked him. "I think he might have a concussion. He keeps calling for 99." 

"99 what?" 

"Should we call someone?" 

"No, no," he managed, trying to stay upright. "I'm okay." Carefully, he let go of the burly Good Samaritan. "Please, just go about your business. I deserved that knock on the head." He nodded emphatically, and grimaced at the ringing it produced. "I called her uterus dusty." 

"He what? Her Taurus was rusty?" asked another curious bystander. 

99 regarded him with that same strange, unfamiliar expression. "I really think you need to see someone." 

"Just fine," he growled, trying hard to smile through the pain. "Let's not draw attention to ourselves. I think you've done enough. What was that for?" 

"I think you're bleeding," pointed out a spectator cheerfully. 

"Oh, God you are!" 99 bit her lip, reaching up tentatively to the side of his head. He quickly smacked it away. 

"No, no, no! I'm fine. Just a little drippy. But I'm fine. Please. Go about your business."

Grabbing hold of 99's elbow, he hobbled fast into a corner, away from the crowd. "99, seriously! If I've done something wrong, perhaps you might want to be a little more direct about it! I thought we discussed the fact that I don't like getting hit on the head. And when did you learn to throw your voice? Because that's very impressive!" 

The elbow in his grasp jerked away, and Max reeled a little. He blinked, put his hand up to his head, and came away with a smear of red. 

"Look, I know for a fact that you were calling me 99 before I hit you, so I'm going to think you're either delusional or think I’m someone else." Trying hard to clear his thoughts, Max straightened, focused on the figure in front of him, and felt something tighten inside of him. Because 99... never looked at him quite like that. And she had not been wearing that dress. And her posture was never this slouchy. 

And 99 had never hit him upside the head with an empty champagne glass. 

"Oh, no." He inhaled sharply. 

"So, I'm going to get you someone from the hotel, and then I'm going to leave. For some reason I have this massive headache now... But again, I’m really, really sorry." 

"No, please-" he began, but the stranger wearing 99's face was already hobbling away from him, toward the ballroom. He took a step, and then the world started spinning. Sucking in a deep breath, he leaned heavily against the wall. When his phone started ringing, he fumbled for it. 

"Smart." 

"Max," came a familiar, aggravated voice. "Did you swallow your mike again?" 

... that sounded very much like 99. Knees nearly buckling, he clutched the wall for support, relieved beyond belief. "Yes," he managed, but protested feebly, "It wasn't my fault. It was yours." 

"How was it mine?" 

"You hit me in the head with a champagne glass." 

There was a moment of silence. "We have a problem, 99," he said, before his 99 could start in on a befuddled rant. 

"You're telling me," she breathed. Max held the phone to his ear, palming the wall with the other arm for support as he struggled to keep his eyes on 99's double as she closed in on the ballroom entrance. 

"A HUGE problem, Max. Apparently there's a woman running around New York wearing my face." 

"I know," he answered, blinking past the pain. 

"How do you know?" 

"Because I'm staring right at her." 

\-- 

And there she was. Miranda absolutely did not notice. 

Her gaze was merely one of casual interest; that was all. No, casual _dis_ interest, because as of this moment, Andrea Sachs was dead to her. 

Well she would be, when the passive-aggressive twit cared to venture a glance in her direction.

"Well, there she is," he chuckled, and Miranda felt suddenly caught, as her eyes drifted back to her companion to discover he was now staring in Andrea's direction. "Lovely woman, wouldn't you say?" 

Miranda felt a sudden shiver of unexplainable rage jitter up her spine. "Of a plain sort, I would think." 

The look he gave her was amused. "A little unfeminine, I would agree." 

Apparently. Andrea seemed barely able to stay upright on her heels. Clumsier than usual, today. 

Miranda's posture tightened, as well as her smile. 

Andrea seemed _very_ clumsy today. 

"Had a little too much champagne," Dwayne noted, when Andrea literally veered into the wall, clutching it for support. 

Could Andrea really have the audacity to show up to an event like this drunk? 

It was not like her. It was infuriating, if it was true. But it was just simply not like her. 

Not even Andrea had the stupidity to do such a thing. 

Unable to help herself, Miranda took an unconscious step forward, hampered only when the man beside her gently blocked her with a smile and a finger on her forearm. 

"I'll take care of her," he said, unruffled by the scathing glare she threw in his direction. "I know her." 

The blood rushed from her face at the insinuation he presented, and she felt deathly cold. "Do you?" she asked sharply. 

"Could have been my champagne that did the trick," he noted, and with a small bow, nodded in her direction. "Can't have her making a scene, can we?" Before she could respond, he was already walking away, heading to Andrea, who now seemed to be struggling for the exit. 

And when on earth did she change her clothing? 

Something was inexcusably wrong with this picture. 

"Miranda," she heard dimly. "The car is here?" 

"It can wait," she hissed. When Beth made a noise, Miranda shot her a murderous glance. Beth shut up immediately. 

Squaring her shoulders, Miranda moved forward, letting the crowds part for her as she headed after Mr. Dwayne Johnson and the door through which he had disappeared. 

\-- 

The screechy woman named Emily continued to make muffled noises, but thanks to the duct tape 99 had found in the closet and stretched over her mouth, she wasn't nearly as annoying. 

She even looked frightened. Which 99 would admit, was a small comfort. 

She really needed that small comfort because another woman had her face. There was another woman. With her face. At this party. 

"Okay," she breathed into the cell phone, closing her eyes and tilting her head back to face the ceiling. "Okay, let's just think. She's a civilian. I'm sure of it. A reporter for a newspaper here in New York, but I've already been confused for her once, and if it keeps happening this is going to turn into some sort of Shakespearean comedy, so..." 

"99, I think something's wrong with her." 

Her head snapped back into position. "What do you mean, Max?" 

"She's wobbling. She disappeared into the ballroom, but she's come back out. She looks sick. Then again, I have had a glass smashed against my head, and it's possible I have a concussion." 

"Oh, Max," she whispered, torn out of the moment when concern for her lover overrode her agent's instincts. 

"I'm all right. There's two of everything, but I'm okay. She looks intoxicated. Then again, so do I." 

In any other profession, the logical conclusion would have been that Andy Sachs was drunk. 

In their line of work, there was another very real, very terrifying possibility. "Max, if I was confused for her, then-"

"-Then if 23 is here, he could very easily mistake her for you." 

A ball of tension sank low into her stomach. "Okay, then you need to catch her, and get her out of the way. Chances are, if she's wobbling..." 

"She's already drugged," he replied grimly. There was a breathless weakness in his voice, and it worried her. 

Gently, she began, "Max, you're hurt." 

"99, I'm fine. I've got my eye on her. I’m going to grab her and convince her to come with me." 

"The woman who smashed a glass against your head." 

"That was a miscommunication. I kissed her." 

Her concern dissolved immediately in favor of a quite different reaction. "Excuse me? You what?" 

"99, at the time I thought she was you." 

"You kissed a complete stranger?" 

"No, I kissed you." 

"No, Max. You kissed a woman who was NOT me." 

"99 right now is not the time for you to get jealous." 

"I'm not jealous," she snapped. "God-dammit, Max." Pressing her palm against her forehead, 99 closed her eyes, and told herself to breathe. "Just get Andy Sachs and put her out of harm's way. I'll track down 23 myself. And then we'll regroup, and you'll be lucky if I don't break another glass over your head for not realizing immediately that wasn't me." 

With a growl, she disconnected. 

Her fingers were already on the door when she heard an agonized muffled whine from the corner of the closet. 

"Oh." Emily stared up at her, wide-eyed and struggling. "Right." Teeth digging into her lower lip, 99 shrugged slightly. "Look, I'm sorry, you're just going to have to stay here until we get this sorted out. Just... relax. I'll be back." 

She opened the door, and chose to ignore the undignified snort that followed. 

\--

Her vision seemed to be fogging over, and these heels, sensible and still high, felt like planks attached to her feet. 

This was so very not good.

Feeling hot and clammy, Andy fumbled for the latch of the bathroom door, stumbling through when the door unlocked and her weight pushed it open. 

Thankfully, the posh bathroom was remarkably deserted. 

God. What was the matter with her?

She managed to make it to the sink, fingers slipping against the faucet until water began to eek out in little pearl size drips. 

But the nausea was building. 

A creak alerted her to another bathroom occupant, but Andy couldn't look. Not when she was too busy trying hard not to throw up. 

"Andy Sachs?" 

Her eyes rose blearily, and she discovered a fuzzy version of the man who she had accidentally assaulted. 

"What are you doing here?" Her tongue felt double its normal size, and it felt dry and cottony to boot. Seriously, what the hell? "This is a ladies' bathroom." 

"I'm aware of that. My name is Maxwell Smart." He sounded like he was speaking from inside a bubble. 

She blinked, and then lowered her head, splashing her face feebly with drops of water. 

"Hiya, Max," she muttered. "I hit you on the head with a glass." 

"Yes, you did. I'm glad you remember. You need to come with me now." 

Too dizzy to do much other than sigh heavily, Andy shook her head. "Max, even if I wasn't this close to puking all over your suit, I would not go with you, because you're clearly insane. Also? There's two of you. And the second one is much bigger. And you're still bleeding." 

She shut off the water, and then turned carefully on her heel, ready to push past him, when her knees suddenly gave out. 

Seconds before her forehead smashed against the porcelain, she was caught, barely, by the insane man she clocked on the head. Relieved, she flopped against his chest, smiled dreamily up at him. "Bless you, crazy Maxwell Smart." 

"We're not out of the woods yet." 

The low, dark tone seemed out of place. Lifting her head, Andy shook it side to side, a misguided attempt to sort out the fogginess. 

It didn't help. 

Nor was it particularly comforting when she blearily realized that the person Andy had seen and inferred was Max's dizzy double was actually not a double at all, but the guy from before who had given her the champagne. 

Maxwell Smart's arms tightened around her, and Andy's smile froze, when the burly man reached behind him and locked the door. The charming smile was gone, and in its place was a gleam in his eyes and a smirk that could only be defined as wicked. 

"Well, what do you know?" he said, pointing a gun. "Don't mind me. Don't want to interrupt the private moment, but as long as I'm here… Long time no see, Max-y." 

\--

"Chief, this isn't a game," 99 spat, keeping her voice low as she walked quietly down the hallway. "They didn't just give me an original face, they gave me someone else's face, and that person is here." 

She could hear cursing on the other end of the phone, before the Chief sighed audibly in her ear. "Call it off," he said, sounding exhausted. "Find Max, find that girl, and get the hell out of there. And tell Max no heroics this time. We can't risk a civilian getting caught up in all of this." 

She shut her eyes, warring within herself. "But this is our best chance of catching 23, Chief. You know that." 

"And you're no good to us with your cover compromised and Max barely standing. Get out of there. We'll track him." 

"Max said he patched you into the camera system." 

"He did. We're going through the feeds to see if we can locate them… stand by, 99." 

Inhaling deeply, 99 willed her heartbeat to slow. 

There was no easy way out of this. 

Max was hurt. Her doppelganger was drugged, and littering this silent auction was not only the very dangerous Agent 23, but also quite a few people who could feasibly recognize her as Andrea Sachs. 

Logically, she should have stayed in the closet until she heard from Max. 

But when it came down to it, 99 was never very good at listening to logic. She went with her gut, and her gut told her that Max's weak voice and confession to seeing two of everything meant he was in a world of trouble if 23 found Andy Sachs before she did. 

And thanks to Max swallowing the damned tooth mike AGAIN, she couldn't know if he was all right. If he got to Andy Sachs in time. If 23 had gotten to them first. 

The sounds of the band drifting weakly from the ballroom told her the cocktail hour was over and the dancing had officially begun, which was good. It meant more people inside, fewer witnesses, less of a chance of running into any one of these fashion giants and being mistaken for the 'traitor' Andy Sachs, which, judging by Emily's reaction, was a very good thing. 

"Chief?" she whispered harshly into the phone, losing patience. "I don't have much time." 

"Stand by, 99, we're working with what we got." 

Cursing silently, she edged slowly down the hallway, turning a corner and nearly colliding with a gray-haired woman in immaculate couture she recognized immediately as Miranda Priestly, Editor-In-Chief of Runway Magazine, and fashion icon. 

Shit. 

For half a second, she was met with intense silence, as the other woman looked her up and down, pursing her thin lips and staring down at her over the elegant, but long nose. 

"Miranda," she began, mind now working a mile a minute as she tried hard to remember what she had extracted from Emily before she had lost patience with her blubbering and gagged her. Andy was Miranda's former assistant. She had walked out on her in Paris. Miranda Priestly HATED Andrea Sachs. 

That was why it was quite a surprise when without hesitation, the aforementioned 'Dragon Lady' grabbed hold of her shoulders, and cupped her chin with long slender fingers, bringing her in close. "Are you sick?" she demanded. "What happened in there?" 

But before she could answer, the flash of familiarity in Miranda's face, the easy way she touched her faded. Hawk eyes met hers, and then the hands dropped as if her skin had scorched her. 

Miranda Priestly looked at her with a hard, furious expression, and those eyes glittered with unspoken warning. 

"Who are you?" came the shocked, quiet whisper. 

Her phone, frozen to her ear, suddenly spat with life. "We've found them, 99. They're in the ladies room, and you'd better hurry. A large man just went in there behind them, and the face may be different, but he's kept up with the weightlifting." 

23\. 

"I'm on my way," she said, and lowered the phone. 

"Answer me." 99's head lifted to find Miranda Priestly glaring at her with an expression that was both dangerous and intimidating. "You will tell me where Andrea is." 

How on earth- 

Sucking in a deep breath, 99 shook her head immediately. There was no time. "I can't explain this to you right now." 

"Try." 

Ignoring her, 99 was already turning, when a hand grabbed hold of her shoulders, fingers digging into her sharply. 

"Tell me where Andrea is." 

There was no time for this. Quickly, her hand jutted out and grabbed hold of Miranda's throat. Ignoring the way a hand came up to clamp at her wrist fiercely, she shoved hard, twisting until she had Miranda Priestly flush against the wall. 

But instead of being frightened, the other woman simply looked furious. 

"Do you have any idea who I am?" The statement was croaked, thanks to the placement of 99's fingers, but the meaning behind it was clear. 

"I don’t CARE," she snapped back in a harsh whisper. "I just care about the fact that Andrea Sachs is in a lot of trouble if you don't let me go and let me DO MY JOB." 

"Let me go or I will scream." 

There were steps, the sound of a hum indicating a person coming down the hallway. 99's grip tightened as she saw the look in Miranda's eyes. She would scream. And 99 would be arrested because she had physically assaulted Miranda Priestly. 

There was no other option. 

Fingers still wrapped around her throat, she pulled, smashing her lips harshly against Miranda's in a passionate embrace. 

Underneath her mouth, Miranda uttered an affronted mumble, which thankfully came off like a moan. Fingers slipped fast to bury into the short hairs at Miranda's nape. 99 shoved her tongue into those thin lips and prayed the acerbic woman would not bite it off. 

Behind her, she heard the humming stop, the steps falter. 

"Good GOD!" she heard, and though her eyes were closed, she immediately knew it was her intruder from before. "You REALLY NEED CHRIST!" 

The steps became a stomp, and died away. 

Fingers dug into her hair and with a sharp jerk, Miranda yanked her head back. 99 grimaced as a searing burst of pain exploded along her scalp. 

"How dare you?!" 

Immediately her palm lifted to cover Miranda's. "Listen to me," she began through gritted teeth. "I am a government agent." 

"And you used Andrea's likeness to attempt to seduce me? Who told you that she and I-" 

... Okay. Wow. 

Her surprise must have registered, because the rage in Miranda's face suddenly died, and was immediately replaced with a hot flush of color splashing along those strong cheeks. 

"Right," 99 said abruptly, oddly embarrassed. "Look, that's... that's not - look, if you want to help her, you need to let me go. She's in a lot of danger right now and I need to go to the bathroom!" 

That came out severely wrong. Miranda's brow arched in contempt.

"Not because I have to pee," she elaborated. "She's been drugged, and there's a rogue agent who wants to kill me and my partner- can I let go?" 

It was a tense moment until Miranda nodded. 99 sighed in relief when the fingers clenching her hair loosened their clutch, and she was able to pull back from the other woman. Bending over, she smoothed her hand up the slit of her dress and slid out the small pistol she had stashed. 

When Miranda fell into step behind her, she froze. Whirling back, she once again faced the imposing woman. "What are you doing?" 

"You said Andrea was in trouble." 

"So?" 

"Lead the way." 

"Oh, God, really?! Look, I don't have time for-" 

The older woman pursed her lips, and impatiently indicated that 99 get moving. 

Rolling her eyes, 99 felt suddenly like stomping her feet and throwing a tantrum before she threw her hands up and flung her arm in the desired direction. "Fine! Whatever. Let's go!" 

Looking satisfied and smug, the infuriating Editor-In-Chief moved down the hallway. 

\--


	3. Two to Tango

_The moan that ripped out of Miranda's throat was low and guttural. Fingers pressed into Andy's skin with bruising intensity, skimming down her sweat-soaked back as gray hair tickled against the side of her throat when Miranda exhaled, forehead falling against her shoulder._

_Eyes fluttering closed, Andy allowed herself to be overtaken by her senses: the smell of Miranda, ridiculously expensive perfume diluted with the more pungent smell of her arousal, her wetness coating her fingers as they remained buried inside of Miranda, the weight of the older woman seated in her lap, collapsed against her after crawling onto her thighs and riding her fingers so enthusiastically._

_Her heart hammered in her chest. In the quiet moment after Miranda's orgasm, Andy allowed herself to touch, free hand smoothing up Miranda's waist, mouth skimming breathlessly along her bare shoulder._

_Who would have thought the best sex she had ever had would have come at the hands of her temperamental, demanding, silver-haired ex-boss?_

_God, how did they even get here?_

_Miranda was starting to feel heavy in her lap, but Andy bore the weight gladly, only letting her fingers slide down Miranda's waist when she felt the other woman start to shift. Easing out of her, Andy didn't miss the shudder, the minute sigh that emerged when her fingers pulled free, skimming the wet digits through Miranda's folds, brushing her swollen clit on the way up._

_"God, you're amazing," Andy confessed, and she tried hard to keep the surprise out of her voice, because Miranda had proven to be oddly insecure and instantly judgmental when it came to this. Insecure about everything, really. Not just Andy's age, but Andy's gender. The fact that Andy could always tell when she came but Miranda still seemed to struggle with her, staring up with flitting eyes to try and figure out her body, unsure if the way Andy convulsed was just reflex or THE reflex that mattered._

_The result was a tendency to be snippy at their most intimate moments. If a cavalier comment slipped from Andy's mouth, Miranda was almost always going to take it the wrong way; get insulted as if Andy wondering if she was tired was always going to be a crack about her age or something equally ridiculous._

_The problem was that Andy was a hothead too. She knew it. She would get wounded, even if she knew better, and then before she knew it they were sniping at each other like hissing cats, and she would get flushed and annoyed and leave, just like Miranda wanted her to._

_Nate had been easy. This was hard. It was the hardest thing Andy did, and her life would be a cakewalk if she just stopped fucking her older, closeted, ridiculously touchy ex-boss._

_Except she didn't. For this reason. Because as odd and weird and annoying as Miranda could be, moments like these made Andy feel like there would never been anything like this ever again, and it was ridiculously important to hold onto Miranda, because somehow Andy knew no one had affected her the way Andy did. Even if Miranda had never expressed that, Andy knew it. Miranda betrayed herself in how she clutched onto Andy. How she kissed her like she was starved for her, how each and every time they fumbled, Miranda always took her back. As long as Andy kept coming back, Miranda would always take her._

_She'd give her hell for it, but she'd take her._

_At this moment, however, Miranda seemed too busy recovering from her orgasm to take offense to Andy's compliment. She merely dug long fingers into Andy's nape and shifted her face, lips brushing against Andy's collar bone before jerking Andy's face to hers and opening her mouth against hers._

_One long, wet kiss later, and Miranda was moving, shoving off of her and leaving Andy feeling oddly bereft as the older woman sat up beside her, eyes closing, fingers rising to smooth against her mussed hair._

_"I need to go," Miranda said, and offered no other explanation. The look she gave Andy smacked of a smidgeon of conflict, because today had been the first time they had been together this week, and it was Friday. "The girls are expecting me."_

_"Sure," Andy said, determined to be cavalier about this. As stupid as it sounded, it seemed very important to her to remain on the same emotional level as Miranda. Match her attitude. Keep her heart from shoving her over the path of no return. "I've got an early day tomorrow anyway."_

_"Mmm…" Miranda now stood, looking uncaringly sexy as she walked barefoot across Andy's bedroom, reaching for the robe she had purchased to keep here at Andy's apartment. Andy thought of it as Miranda's 'fuck me' robe, and it created a bit of a Pavlov-ian response in her. She got turned on every time she even saw it in her closet. "Another do-gooder article on the appalling educational system in Queens, I imagine?"_

_If that was Miranda pretending to be interested, she could have at least attempted to sound a little more excited about it._

_"No, actually." Following suit, Andy reached for a t-shirt, shoving her hands into the sleeves and raising it over her torso. "Kimberly is on maternity leave, so Steve asked me to fill in."_

_"Fascinating," Miranda answered dryly, tying the robe's knots together at her front. "Then you'll be free late tomorrow?"_

_Ah, the next rendezvous. Poking her head out of the shirt, Andy pulled on her long hair and draped it over her shoulders. "You mean you don't already have plans?"_

_"An art auction at the Plaza," Miranda remarked. "Sounds positively dreadful. I don't plan to be there more than twenty minutes."_

_Resisting the urge to smile at Miranda's resigned disgust, Andy scooted off the bed, arching a contemplative brow when Miranda's eyes immediately drifted to where the shirt's hem met her upper thighs._

_"I'm on call," Andy reminded her, but wasn't obstructed when she slipped hands around the silk robe and knotted her fingers together at the small of Miranda's back. "But I'll let you know."_

_A moment, a pregnant pause, and Miranda's observant eyes remained on her face, almost as if she were mapping each point: ear to nose, jaw to lips. Long elegant fingers rose and smoothed down knuckle first against her cheek. "Make yourself available."_

_The way Miranda said it, breathless and almost choked, caused a hitch in Andy's throat. Slowly, a smile spread across her face._

_"Yes, Miranda," she whispered, the tone almost teasing before Miranda's head lowered and their lips met in a lingering kiss._

\--

Miranda Priestly did not wear her fear on her face for the world to see. Her emotions were held deep inside of her, because she was of the opinion that that was where they belonged. Emotional outbursts did no one any good. In her business, it was in her interest to keep her emotions close to her like a well dealt hand. Very few people had been privy to an expression that had not been carefully orchestrated, and objectively, she understood that doing so had become a habit that manifested itself in her personal life as well. 

Her children could sometimes see her as cold. Near the end of her marriage, Stephen had come to see her as frigid (which was not the case; she just had no desire for him). Andrea, it seemed, posed an entirely different problem. It seemed that the more intimate they became, the easier it was for Andrea to gut her in a way that she was simply not prepared for. 

Too easily an angry snarl would slip from Miranda's lips in defense of some offhand comment Andrea flippantly expressed. Too quickly, Miranda could see the hurt manifest itself in her lover's young face, and too often, the resulting jolt of emotion that capsized her heart nearly paralyzed her. 

It affected her now, in a jolt of emotion so fierce and overwhelming she was frozen with it, scarcely able to keep her face neutral and without expression as she followed the girl who looked like Andrea down the hallway, eyes locked on the dull black of the gun that stayed cocked in the woman's hand. 

But her heart was pounding, and her skin itched like she had a rash, because this? This was ridiculous. Body doubles and government agents, and the mere idea that Andrea was somehow caught up in the midst of all this… 

It could have all been avoided if the dumb girl had simply stayed HOME like Miranda had requested. 

Had Andrea stayed home, Miranda would have already been in the car, Roy at the wheel. She would have been heading to her townhouse instead of the god-forsake bathroom in a back hallway of the Plaza. Andrea would have been at her apartment, waiting for Miranda and a night of debauchery instead of being drugged and in danger in a GOD-FORSAKEN BATHROOM. 

Miranda's fingers betrayed her. They twitched, grabbing hold of her dress and wrinkling the fabric. 

The motion distracted Andrea's doppelganger, pupils twitching from the corner of her eye before the agent straightened and kept a hand up, motioning for her to keep quiet. 

10 feet away from them, was the door. 

"You're staying here," said the government agent who wore Andrea's face, but not Andrea's unique brightness. Not Andrea's smile, and no small scar that was barely visible underneath Andrea's chin. Too toned for Andrea, as well. Small observation, but Miranda Priestly was the editor of a magazine that relied on attention to the tiniest detail, and the mother of twins. 

Just as no two blue belts were exactly the same, there would only ever be one Andrea. 

In that moment, she sucked in a deep breath, feeling suddenly faint as she had no other recourse but to place her faith in the intense, worried face of this agent. She nodded, hands still fisting fabric as the other woman moved toward the door marked with the word 'Women'. 

"There she is! Right there!" 

Body stiffening, Miranda's focus jerked to the voice shouting behind them. 

A blotched, limping Emily bore down on them, followed by three hotel guards. She pointed directly at Andrea's double. "That's her!" Emily squeaked. "That's the imposter!" 

\--

Max had been in tight spots before. His short but eventful career as a spy thus far had given him quite a number of scrapes, including but not limited to hurtling from an airplane with no parachute, fighting a seven foot tall bad guy on top of an exploding building, and having his ass scraped raw thanks to being dragged at eighty miles an hour by a speeding car. 

With that in mind, he knew that he had what it took to get out of this. Even with a semi-conscious double of 99 in his arms, and a pounding headache that affected his vision and made everything look … snowy, he could get out of this. 

There would be an idea on how to deal with the rogue traitor formerly known as Agent 23, who was still physically intimidating and devastatingly handsome, and pointed a Glock in his direction, aimed right at Andrea Sach's head. 

It was coming. Any time now.

He blinked, tried hard to get his brain to work. "You should know," he finally began. "That this entire hotel is crawling with Control agents. They're just waiting for the word." 

A large smile floated on the handsome face. "I don't think so, Max." 

Damn. He sucked in a pained breath. "How about 10 NYPD Snipers?" 

"Not so much." 

"Maybe a security guard with an angry scowl?" 

The low, rumbling chuckle that came in response was chilling. "No."

"Damn."

"You know, Max-y, I always liked you." Agent 23's smile, however, did not match the furious glint that sparked from the dark eyes. "You were sincere, you know? As transparent as plastic wrap. Believed so much in what you were doing. I wanted you to be a field agent, I did." 

"You'll understand if that doesn't make me feel overtly sentimental." Max didn't dare take his eyes off the other agent with the gun, but the woman in his arms had gone from semi-conscious to blacking out. She now slumped against him like an increasingly heavy sack of potatoes, and with his concussion jack-hammering into the side of his head, he felt himself leaning. 

He grimaced, but tightened his grip and kept his ground. As long as Agent 23 kept talking, he was safe. And boy did this guy like to talk. How had he never noticed it before? 

"Honestly didn’t think you'd have it in you to keep her happy, though." The gun motioned lightly on Andy's still form, before it again rose to regard Max with its black, dark nozzle. "She really is a needy, pushy thing, isn't she?" 

Oh, yeap, there it was, the sexual intimidation that happened every time he remembered that 99's previous lover had been the hulking specimen that was Agent 23. 

"23-" 

"Don't call me that." 

"What?" 

The smile was gone. "My name is not 23. It's not even a name. It's just a number. It's a stupid number." 

"Michael Jordan wore a 23 on his blazer. It's a great number." 

"I hate Michael Jordan. I wanted 8, like Kobe Bryant." 

"Oh." Max blinked. "Isn't his number 24 now?" 

A flicker of annoyance creased 23's smile into a frown. "Originally, it was 8." 

"But it's 24 now." 

"Look, would you -" the gun shook maniacally before 24 managed to get a hold of himself, inhaling and exhaling again. "Yes, I know it's 24 now, but originally, it was 8. Okay?" 

"Okay," Max answered, nodding agreeably. "But it'd be easier if I had a name to call you. Would you like me to call you Number 8, then?" 

The gun stayed still as the idea marinated in 23's mind. A boyish smile emerged, and the massive shoulders squared. Stepping forward lightly with his gun, he grinned, "You know what? Sure. Do that. Call me 8. Like Kobe."

"Fine, Number 8."

"Nice," 23 said, nodding happily. "I like it. Like Kobe. It's been waiting a long time for this, Max. Let's see how much Control is willing to pay to get back their two best agents." 

"They won't pay a dime. You know that." 

"Oh, please. I know the protocol. But the Chief has a soft spot for you and that girl, Max-y." Max swallowed, watching with a growing sense of dread at the sudden coldness in 23's eyes as he once again looked at the unconscious Andy Sachs. "How'd you get her, Max? What'd you do? Give her the ole' boyscout routine? 'I could never tell a lie'?" 

"Number 8, there has been a severe miscommunication." 

"Oh, has there?" 

"You see, the woman in my arms? She is not Agent 99. Her name is Andrea Sachs. She is an innocent-" 

"Oh, come on, Max-y." The smile was instantly gone. "Do you think I was born yesterday? I know I've been in the business a long time, and you're just a rookie but even you should know better than to try to give me 'this is just a body double' line." 

"You don't think she was acting oddly to you?" Max tried, trying hard not to sound desperate as the weight became too much for him. Carefully, he allowed the unconscious girl to slink down, and betrayed himself when he staggered in the process. 

"Careful, Max. That's quite a knock on your head." 

"You know that 99 would never drink a glass of champagne from a strange man. This isn't 99! You need to let her go." 

"You know what? I've had enough." Without hesitation or warning, 23's finger jerked, pulling the trigger of the gun. 

Max yelped, his woozy head kept him sluggish, but a half a second later, a dart buried deep into the wall behind him. 

"Ha-ha!" he said, delighted with his reflexes. "A drugged dart, meant for my head! I hate to say it, 23, but you missed it by that mu-" 

23 shot again, and the burn sizzled on Max's neck before the world tilted sideways and went black. 

\--

"Miss, we'll need you to come with us." 

Ten feet from the bathroom door. 

God, they were SO CLOSE to saving Max and the girl, and that GOD-DAMNED Emily-

Agent 99's fingers clenched tightly around her gun, and she brought it quickly behind her, keeping it out of sight. 

"Oh, Miranda!" The little screechy thing named Emily now had her eyes on Miranda Priestly, who looked incensed. "She's kidnapped me! She locked me in a closet!" 

The surprise on the editor's face was palpable as she swiveled to face her in disbelief. "You locked her in a closet?" 

99 made no apologies. "And I gagged her. She was being hysterical." 

"Ah," Miranda said, as if it that was completely understandable. "Officers, I'm afraid there's been somewhat of a miscommunication-" 

"No misunderstanding, ma'am," said one olive-skinned guard, brandishing his nightstick. "Maintenance found her in the closet. She's very adamant that this young lady kidnapped her." 

"She did!" Emily was hyperventilating in her emotion, and 99 winced, a shiver of annoyance causing a roll on her shoulders and she kept her back to the wall, eyes not on the guards but on the door. "She was talking about body doubles and having Andy's face-"

"Emily, keep it quiet," she warned. 

"I will certainly not-" 

"Shut up, you stupid girl!" Miranda, it seemed, had finally lost her temper. "You don't know a thing about this." The statement, said with utter disgust and annoyance, drained the color from Emily's face, as the girl cast them both a disbelieving snort, before shaking her head furiously. 

"No, Miranda! She's not Andy! I got to you just in time!"

"Have you gone out of your mind?" Miranda demanded, and 99 gave an agonized look toward the door, heart pounding heavily. 

"I don't have time for this," she breathed. Beside her, Miranda Priestly gave her a grim-faced expression. The older woman now turned completely in the direction of Emily and the guards, shielding her from their glares. 

"You'll have to excuse my coordinator, officers. Sometimes she has the most ridiculous notions-" 

"Miranda, she assaulted me!" 

"Emily, you will keep your mouth shut." 

"I can't! She's an imposter, Miranda!" 

She couldn't wait. The shouting was getting louder, and the door was so close. With a grimace, 99 ignored the sudden shout of warning by the guard and moved fast, jerking around Miranda and lifting up her gun, aiming it directly at Emily's heart as she now stood just outside the bathroom door. 

The screech that had begun to emerge from Emily's panicked form dissolved into a sudden whine. 

"Keep.Your.Mouth.Shut," she hissed, fumbling for the door handle. 

Locked. 

Dammit. 

"Woah, lady!" 

"Listen to me." Swallowing hard, 99 kept her gun on Emily, but directed her gaze to the guards, who were fumbling for their belts. "There is a very bad man on the other side of that door, and he has two hostages. I need your help to bring him down. Are you listening to me?" 

"Lady, the only danger to this hotel is you. Now put the gun down before someone gets hurt." 

"Miranda-" 

And then the door exploded, smashing into her body and forcing her off balance. She rammed hard into the wall, nearly colliding with Miranda, temple cracking against the hard surface before her gun swerved in the direction of the opening door and right into the image of a large, muscled man, hidden behind his own revolver. 

It was him. Not the same face, but the same eyes, the same shit-eating grin. The very same killer. 

Immediately she reached behind her, shoving Miranda between her and the wall, shielding the woman from harm. 

"23," she whispered, and despite her ringing head, kept her gun up, warring with herself to keep her reflexes in control and not take her eyes off of him for even the second it would take to look past him and make sure Max and the girl were still alive. 

"99," he returned, a little breathless. He stared at her, dark eyes dilating as he processed her image, and suddenly smiled at the picture she presented. "Well," he said, whistling in appreciation. "Looks like the idiot was telling the truth. Should have known. Max doesn't lie." 

"Where is he?" 

"Taking a nap," he snarled, waving his free hand carelessly toward the bathroom. "Don't worry. He's not dead yet. I'm planning to savor that." 

"Let them go, 23," she ordered, voice even, firm. "You can't get out of this." 

"I think I can. I got away from you once before." 

"We blew you up. I'm not sure that qualifies." 

The smug smile faltered. "You know its demeaning crap like that that was always a problem with you and me, 99. You never did know when to keep your trap shut." 

"Oh, God," she snapped, keeping her gun trained to the spot right between his temples. "Get over it, 23! People dump people! Deal!" 

"They don't dump me!" 

"I hate to intrude," Miranda's soft voice cut in. "But it seems there may be an issue." 

To their right, Emily gave another pitiful, muffled squeak. 

That was a bad sign. That was a very bad sign. 

Fingernails dug meaningfully into her shoulder, and with her free hand still splayed back against Miranda's hip, 99 began to move, keeping Miranda behind her until they had moved away from the wall and were now facing 23 and the hotel guns behind him, all brandishing guns. 

One held Emily against him, muzzle of his weapon digging painfully into her temple. 

"Hotel guards do not carry guns," Miranda informed her quietly, as her grip tightened on her shoulder. 

"That's because they're not guards," 99 answered, and winced at her own stupidity, the pieces falling together fast. "This was all a trap," she whispered hoarsely. "You planted the rumor in the chatter because you knew only Max would be good enough to pick it up. You wanted us-" 

"I wanted you," 23 interrupted. "But now I've got Max, a fake you, the real you, and even Miranda Priestly." He grinned. "I'll take it." 

Panic rose in her throat like bile. "No-" 

The instinctive jerk she made, one step toward him, was enough for the smile to fade, and the guard holding Emily shoved the gun in a bruising nudge against her throat, making the girl cry out. 

"No, no, no." The glare in 23's eyes was murderous. "You don't get to move. You don't get to move one foot forward, or I kill your precious Max, and your little mirror-image, and the redhead. I won't wait. I blast their heads off right now." His eyes shifted from her to the woman pressed up behind her. "No offense, Ms. Priestly. I really am a fan. 99, drop the gun." 

There was no way out of this. Too many people, too many guns pointed at her. Too many people to protect. 

And 23 had just given her information. 

He wouldn't kill Max. Not yet. She had time. She didn't know how much time she had, but she had it. 

Enough to save Max. Enough to save Andrea Sachs, Miranda Priestly and even the wretched Emily, who looked pathetically helpless, clawing at the strong hands holding her, tears dripping down her cheeks. 

Poor Emily had had a very stressful hour. 

She would do no one any good if she gave up her gun. She could not help herself and not help Miranda Priestly if they stayed in this eternal stand-off, even if her lover was in the bathroom unconscious. She was hopelessly outnumbered and there were four men with guns, one of which was 23, who she knew she could not beat in hand-to-hand combat. Not on her own. She had to think like an agent, and assess the risks. 

"Put the gun down, 99." 

Get out. Regroup. Get Miranda safe, and then try and save the rest. 

Her eyes moved off of 23 for only a second, enough to lock glances with the unfortunate assistant whose only mistake had been to overreact when she thought she was somebody else. 

"I’m sorry for locking you in the closet," she said, before she flicked a latch on the side of her gun. 

The smoke bomb that was immediately released created a sudden fog and shout of disoriented alarm. 

Without waiting, 99 turned and grabbed hold of Miranda, shoving hard. "GO!" she snapped, before she grabbed hold of Miranda's arm and dragged her in a sprint down the hall and toward the only available door.

"DAMMIT - after them!" 

The chirp of a bullet whizzed past her ear, buried with a snap into the wall beside them. 

"I will not leave Andrea," Miranda hissed, and suddenly paused and added, as in afterthought, "Or Emily. So I can kill her myself." 

"I can't help them right now," 99 said, and fumbled against the door, grabbing hold of the handle and pushing hard, shoving Miranda through the door as another bullet buried in the wood a centimeter to the left of her shoulder. 

Breathless, she discovered herself accidentally cupping Miranda Priestly's breast as they struggled untangle themselves, in full view of the gaping guests mingling just outside the door of the crowded ballroom. 

"Do you mind?!" Miranda hissed, and immediately, she yanked her hand away. 

"Sorry." 

The music wavered only slightly, and then continued, to a tune that 99 immediately recognized as 'Por Una Cabeza'. 

The ballroom was crowded though, and that could have been either very good, or very bad. 

"Get away from the door," she ordered as she dragged Miranda further into the crowd, taking the moment to quietly slip her gun back in the holder just underneath the deep slit of her dress. 

"We need to go back for Andrea-" 

"We won't do her any good if we're both captured."

"He means to kill her!" 

"But not right away. We have time. I need to get you out of here and safe. Max is smart. He'll find a way to keep them both safe until I can find them again." It was an awful lot of faith to put upon her lover, particularly because 99 was no optimist, but she had no choice.

"And what do you suggest we do until then?" Miranda's face was pale underneath her make up, and even as her eyes blazed with fury, her fingers trembled against 99's, heedless of the crowd. 

The door opened and 23's security guards emerged, guns pocketed, but eyes blazing, mindful of the watching crowd. 

Hitching in her breath, 99 thought fast. 

"We tango." 

_End chapter_


	4. Attack of the Show

This was simply unacceptable.

What should have been a dull but quick appearance at a regular Irv-mandated public affair had turned into something out of an Inspector Clouseau film. 

Andrea, who should not have even BEEN at this disastrous affair, was currently in the clutches of a madman. Emily with all her panics and hysterics had finally proven to be _completely_ useless and had gotten herself kidnapped not once, but twice, and now Miranda Priestly had been forced to run. Miranda did not run. It was not in her nature. Particularly not in her ridiculously expensive shoes. Nor was it in her nature to be dragged like a… rioter, or to have bullets whizzing by her, flaking her with chipping plaster when they plowed into walls inches from her fleeing form. 

And the big solution to being in a crowded ballroom on the run from men with guns, according to her genius secret agent who bore Andrea's likeness, was to tango? 

This would simply … NOT DO. 

Already, the Woman Who Was Not Andrea had grabbed hold of her wrist (and no one ever touched Miranda Priestly without permission, except perhaps Andrea herself), intently eyeing the wooded platform in the ballroom in front of the orchestra, reserved for the guests intending to dance. 

"Tango!?" The sharp outburst, tumbling out of Miranda's mouth with such reckless abandon, was indicative of just how far out-of-control this entire situation had become. "Are you out of your mind?" 

"What?" The woman was breathless, dark eyes darting over the crowd; focus not on her, but rather on the security guards that were most assuredly making their way in their direction. "Do you not know how?" 

The question was so ludicrous Miranda was struck speechless for a full second. "Of course I know how!" she spat, unable to help herself. "But if you think that I'm going to take a dance floor with another woman-" 

"Aren't you sleeping with another woman?" 

Though she would never admit it, Miranda's ears tinted pink. Straightening her shoulders, she glanced at the crowd surrounding them, several casting wondering glances at Miranda and The Woman Who Was Not Andrea, and the intimate picture they created. "That's hardly common knowledge, is it?" 

"Miranda!" 

Of course, it would be her useless assistant Beth, looking glassy-eyed and glaring heatedly at the Agent Who Was Not Andrea, shredding the napkin in her hands to bits. 

"Beth, leave us immediately." 

"Roy has been waiting outside for twenty minutes. They're threatening to have him towed!" The girl looked desperately close to bursting into tears. Miranda rolled her eyes in frustration. 

"Now is not the time-" 

"What's she doing here?!" Beth squeaked, eyes narrowed at 99. "Isn't that Andrea Sachs? Is she stalking you? Do you want me to have her removed?" 

"Beth, get a hold of yourself." 

"Miranda, you said that you-" 

"Good god, they follow you like puppies, don't they?" The Woman Who Was Not Andrea seemed as openly aggravated as she did, eyes scouting the guards that appeared to weave ever closer. 

Miranda exhaled sharply through her nose, determined to end this. 

"Beth, have you gone quite deaf?" 

Blinking, Beth flushed. "No, Miranda." 

"Than I fail to understand why you can't follow a simple order." 

"But you said-" 

A pale hand flashed out, and grabbed hold of Beth's wrist so quickly the girl actually squeaked. The agent's look was anything but sympathetic. "Beth, tell Roy to have the car out in front and we will be out in five minutes. Do your job." 

"But Emily-" 

"Emily failed to do her job, so I kidnapped her, gagged her, and locked her in a closet." Andrea's look-alike's eyes glittered furiously. "I have no qualms about doing the same to you." 

Beth knew better than to look to Miranda for help. The napkin in her hand was now nothing but scattered bits of confetti. "Yes, Andy." 

"Get going." 

"Yes, Andy." 

"Good." 'Andrea's threats had apparently frightened the girl into a catatonic state. The dreadful assistant only gaped. 

Miranda exhaled and arched an eyebrow. 

That did it. Teetering on her heels, Beth turned immediately and pushed her way through the crowd, fleeing to save her life and her limousine. 

"Do you have any idea what kind of public figure I am?" she snapped, the minute the girl was gone. The grip on her wrist tightened, and the force behind it caused an unhitched gasp at the sudden pain. The swell of anger was instantaneous. "Let go of me." 

But the agent only stepped forward, invading her space, uncaring of the eyes that were now openly staring as one hand reached up and smoothed up her chin, eyes locked on hers intensely.

Despite the fact that she knew better, Miranda felt her body respond instantly to the phantom façade of Andrea, which was nothing short of embarrassing. 

"Listen, Ms. Priestly," she heard, as the hand wrapped against her neck and pulled her in, creating the appearance of an intimate whispered conversation. Lips brushed delicately against the shell of her ear. "Right now the only reason we are still alive is because everyone is looking at us. As long as you are the center of attention, Agent 23's men can only watch. So you either dance with me right now and come out of your closet or we get caught, and Andrea doesn’t live long enough to give you hell for it. And I'm sorry if this isn't good for your image, Ms. Priestly, but I'm not going to let Max die just because you have a reputation to uphold!" 

"There's no need for melodramatic statements," she managed, but the frank summation of what they were in the middle of brought with it a needed reality check. It was, however, a bitter pill to swallow. The Woman Who Was Not Andrea, however, seemed to take that as acquiescence, and nodded shortly.

"Let's go," she snapped, and before Miranda could quite recover, pasted on a seductive expression that mimicked Andrea's bedroom eyes so perfectly Miranda gasped in surprise. With moves so graceful they were effortlessly lithe, the agent stepped back, fingers linking loosely with hers. Eyes connected intensely, and suddenly the secret agent who was not Andrea was leading her effortlessly through the parting crowd. 

\--

What were the odds? 

A classic case of mistaken identity and it still managed to work in his favor. Mostly.

Dwayne Johnson (aka Agent 23) had apparently stolen someone else's good fortune.

It wouldn't surprise him. He stole a lot of things. 

At the moment he had stolen a rookie secret agent, drugged an unconscious woman who looked exactly like his ex-girlfriend, and somehow ended up with a hysterical redhead he didn't quite want, but couldn't be bothered to kill yet. 

There were other things to worry about than the bulging eyes and black streaks trailing their way down her blotched, slender face. 

"You're making a huge mistake," said the woman named Emily, sitting stiffly in the corner of the van, legs splayed out in front of her. "No one crosses Miranda Priestly and gets away with it." 

With a grunt of effort, he shoved unconscious Max at Emily's feet, ignoring her squeal in response. "Wrong, Princess," he answered with a wink and a smile. "No one crosses me. Keep your mouth shut, you may get out of this alive." 

The pretty eyes flared in anger. "If you really think that you can get away with this-" 

In warning, he lifted up a roll of duck tape. Obediently, the mouth slammed shut. He grinned. "Good girl." 

Tossing the duck tape aside, he leaned forward and unwrapped the second figure, allowing the blacked out woman room to breathe. 

Andrea Sachs was a very pretty woman, an exact replica of Agent 99, at least superficially. Now, tracing the soft skin with his fingertips, examining every inch of the unconscious face, he discovered he still had trouble catching the differences, subtle as they were. 

Not that anyone could blame him. His 99 had been blonde and olive skinned, not the pale-faced, brunette younger-looking incarnation that had returned after the plastic surgery. 

This one was softer around the edges, from the graceful fall of her bangs and the rounder shape of her hips. She had none of 99's hardness, which was a nice surprise to be honest. 99 had been a beautiful woman in any incarnation, but her mean right hook and her habit of punching people in the face had always been a turn off. 

Even so, he had been prepared to take her with him. Maybe it was the bittersweet romantic in him, but he had actually entertained the thought that maybe, just maybe, they could have found a way to make it work. Had she passed the test. Had she chosen to stay with him, even with a blown cover, and hadn't changed her entire face, chosen the job, chosen ANOTHER MAN over him. 

Max was now openly snoring, drool pooling on the floor of the van, muttering something in his sleep about calories and skipping meals. 

This was 99's dream man. 

The very thought revolted him, and he forced himself to breathe, calming himself long enough to finger the strong jawline of Andrea Sachs. 

"Oh, would you stop pawing her?!" The sharp outburst forced his attention away from Andrea and back on the other woman, who looked infuriated on Andrea's behalf.

"Friend of yours?"

That resulted in an affronted sniff. "Hardly," muttered the other woman, and squirmed, obviously trying to find a more comfortable way to sit with both her legs and her arms bound. "The woman is a menace." 

"Is she now?" 

"She makes a mess of everything she does. She comes into an office with an innocent smile, and then takes your trips to Paris out from under you. She abandoned Miranda Priestly-and she's not even THAT pretty!" Emily was now actively sweating, and blew hard at the red bangs that flew into her face. "However," she began, British accent making the enunciation even more pronounced, flushing at the bemused expression on his face. "That does not give you license to man-handle her, demented psycho that you may be." 

The smile that had drifted onto his features fell instantly. "I'm not a psycho, I'm a sociopath. There is a difference." 

"Oh, I should care, because?" 

"Because one doesn't care whether you live or die, and the other would peel off your skin just listen to you scream," he answered with a growl. The color once again drained from Emily's face, leaving behind the freckles and the large, jeweled eyes, which grew rounder at the insinuation. 

"You can't kill me," she announced hotly, looking terrified and inconvenienced at the same time. 

"Oh, really?" 

"Yes, really. The Milan shoot is an absolute mess and unless I work all today tomorrow to fix it, Giselle will be wearing Pez containers instead of Tacori." 

He blinked, knocked into confusion by the odd statement. Emily, posture board stiff, nodded immediately, tears dried and eyes flashing furiously. 

She was actually sincere. 

The sound of an agonized moan, thankfully, ripped him away from trying to wrap his head around the inner workings of one of Miranda Priestly's yes-girls. 

He had Max-y. He had Andrea Sachs. But he had come for the original recipe, not the knock off. Max and 99 had a lot coming to them, but they were going to be together when it happened. 

It would have been easier to take them both now, true, but no sense in getting caught up in what should-have-been. 

The key to being a good agent was the ability to roll with the unexpected, and he had already done the hard part. He had Max. 

Now, all he had to do was leave a trail of breadcrumbs and 99 would follow like the loyal bitch she was. 

Then they would finish this. 

"Did you hear me? I absolutely must not die today!" 

"Because your magazine depends on it?" 

"Exactly!" 

"You really over-estimate yourself, don't you? Don't answer that!" he answered, before she unleashed some God-awful tirade. "And keep your mouth shut, or I kill you. End of story. Shut up. Jerry," he snapped, slamming the van door closed, ignoring the huffy snort from the redhead he had collected. "Where are they?" Silence. Sucking in a lungful of air through his nostrils, Dwayne Johnson willed himself to keep his patience. It was difficult. He had spent too much time planning, too much time waiting, to leave this all to a pair of stupid guards he picked up for a cheap rate. "Jerry!" 

"Sorry, Mr. Johnson," the idiot finally stuttered back. 

"Do you have them?" 

"Not exactly, sir. They're in the ballroom." 

Safety in numbers. Dwayne couldn't help a smile. 99 had always been a smart girl. "So what are they doing?" 

A long pause, and then he heard it. "They're um... dancing the tango." 

\--

Inhale. Exhale, and then follow the music. 

The seductive smile was small, subtle, and the woman only had eyes for Miranda Priestly. One slender palm smoothed possessively along the surprisingly slender back of the imposing Editor-in-Chief, and dark lids fluttered with appreciation. 

The reaction was enough to cause a small smile, before 99 leaned in, knee moving in between Miranda's legs, other hand clasping Miranda's, bringing her into a tight, intimate hold. 

The room had gone quiet, their audience shocked and startled, because this was Miranda Priestly and her ex-assistant Andrea Sachs. Eyeballs would be glued to them. Then the whispers would start, and no one would be capable of thinking of nothing else. 

They would get a show. 

Behind the crystal eyes, Miranda Priestly looked simultaneously terrified and furious, and the look was appealing. The older woman was not a classic beauty, her features were too strong for that, but there was no lacking her charisma or her subtle sexiness. 

99 had been an agent for a long time. Seduction was common in her line of work, and among the dozens of men she had lured into her clutches with her sexuality; there had been a few women. She understood, as she let her eyes nakedly appreciate the soft curves of Miranda Priestly, what it was about the other woman that had her doppelganger entranced. 

Tongue darting out to moisten the line of her lips, she kept her movements slow, calculating, as her cheek brushed against the soft skin of Miranda's jaw. "Just follow my lead," was her only statement, released in a hot breathless sigh. Miranda shuddered, and even under the circumstances, 99 could not help the satisfied smile. 

This may have very well been the only circumstance under which Miranda would have assented to follow anyone in anything. 

The bass drum snapped, and in reaction, she flexed her muscles, pushing with her left hand and smoothing back with her right, hips pressing forward between Miranda's legs. The step back was immediate. 

A little stiff, but workable. With a soft, encouraging smile, 99 tightened her hold on Miranda's waist, guiding her easily into a simple twist that spun off her hip and allowed the other woman to extend a smooth leg, curve it around her thigh. 

Good. Smooth, careful. Keeping her muscles tight, 99 let Miranda hold on to her, kept her hand clutched in hers as she shifted Miranda's weight in her hands, and allowed the woman to keep twisting. Arm now wrapped tight around her waist, she broke her hold long enough to reach up with soft fingers, and trail her free hand, fingers outstretched, over Miranda's face. 

Miranda's fingers clenched, catching strands of brunette hair in 99's nape. 99 smiled. Good. 

With a practiced ease, 99 once again shifted the weight, and Miranda followed in the other direction, straightening up, and stepping backwards in a glide across the floor. 

Eyes darting away from Miranda's for a moment, she caught sight of the security guards, edging the staring crowd. One looked a little slack jawed. 

When the music swelled, 99 reached forward, turning Miranda so she was now behind her, and grabbed her waist in unforgiving possession, slamming her hard; ass into groin. Miranda's head fell back against her shoulder. 

"This is ridiculous," 99 heard, mumbled against her neck before she gripped Miranda's hips and once again forced a turn, leaving them slanted together, foreheads tilting against each other. "The object is to escape, not give a pornographic exhibition." 

Mouth pulling into a reluctant smile, 99 once again fanned her fingers against Miranda's cheek, and stepped back on her heel, bringing Miranda with her, allowing the other woman to spring a sharp kick between her thighs. 

Torso leaning forward, 99 slid her forearm around Miranda's waist and tilted her back, allowing her free hand to smooth down between the cleavage presented to her as Miranda's head tipped back. 

"Don't tell me this is turning you on." 

Fingernails dug hard into her arms. Had they been any sharper, they would have drawn blood. 

Snapping Miranda up, she once again manipulated her hold on her waist, and walked her across the floor. 

They were now the only ones dancing. The center of attention. 

Twisting the older woman in her arms, she now held her back against her, walking her gently toward the edge of the dance floor. 

"Listen to me," she began quietly, as dark eyes blazed into hers intensely. "When the music stops, we're going to make our way to the entrance on the side. Do you see it?" 

She executed a sharp left, allowing Miranda to see her intended exit route. "Yes." 

"Good," she responded hoarsely, and twisted Miranda once again, clasping her hand over Miranda's neck and drawing her in for a searing kiss on the lips. 

\-- 

Jerry Machoval felt the blood drain from his brain straight down to his groin.

The collective gasp of the scandalized crowd around him only made it worse. 

"Jerry? What's going on?" 

Swallowing hard, he furtively placed his hands over his belt, and tried to adjust himself. A woman beside him offered a disgusted huff. Flushing, he coughed, and shrugged. 

The woman rolled her eyes and turned away, muttering, "Pervert." 

"They really need Christ," muttered a chubby man in a suit, stuffing a handful of crackers into his mouth. 

"Jerry!" 

The name, shouted into his earpiece, caused a startled wince. Shaking the ringing out of his head, he sucked in a lungful of air to clear his dizzy senses and licked his dry lips. 

"Uh... They're... kissing, sir." 

A quiet pause, then a low chuckle, which terrified him. "God," he heard Mr. Johnson breathe. "She's good. She's really good. I'm surprised she talked the great Priestly into it." 

"Now they're pulling out of it," he added under his breath, pushing carefully against the fat man and his crackers and weaving through the crowd as Agent 99 melded with Ms. Priestly into the crowd, fingers tangled with the older woman. "They're heading for the east exit. There's virtually no traffic there. We can take them." 

Another pause, and that made him uneasy. If there was something he had learned very quickly about his new boss, it was that the man was rarely patient. 

"So you're going to follow them." 

"Yes sir." 

"Okay, you do that," he heard, but he could have sworn it sounded patronized and exasperated. "Instead of standing here talking to me about it." 

"Yessir." 

"And Jerry?" 

"Yessir." 

"Get your dick under control." 

He flushed, and grabbed hold of a glass of wine from a passing wine, pressing the cool glass against his temple. "Yessir." 

"And under no circumstances tell them that we're going to be at 500 Miraposa Drive in Scarsdale." 

The statement was oddly out of place. "Sir?" 

"You do not tell them that I'm taking Max-y here to 500 Miraposa Drive in Scarsdale. That's 500 Miraposa Drive. In Scarsdale. Did you hear me?" 

"Yes sir," he wheezed, bewildered. 

"Repeat that back to me." 

"Sir?" 

"Repeat back to me what you are absolutely not supposed to say." 

"Um..." He took a gulp of wine, and waves his hand to Matthew, who was already veering toward the exit. "I'm not supposed to tell them that you'll be at 500 Miraposa Drive in Scarsdale sir." 

"That's right. No matter what Agent 99 does to you." 

"No matter what Agent - she'll do stuff to me?" 

"If she catches you? Oh sure. She's well versed in torture. I taught her myself." Mr. Johnson sounded very proud about that. "She'll probably stick something sharp under your fingernails, really dig it up there." Jerry's erection immediately deflated like a balloon. He took another gulp of wine, shouldering past a sputtering young man wheezing about never realizing 'what a piece of hot ass Miranda Priestly' was. "But you won't break, will you?" 

"No, sir. Even if she sticks spikes up my fingernails." 

"Oh! You know what I liked to do? I used to like to take some floss, and wrap it around my guy's neck, and just choke them right up until just before they lost consciousness, then bring them back. And then when they finally felt they could breathe? I'd do it all over again." 

"She'd do that?" he couldn't help but squeak.

"Well, no... she's not as strong as I am." 

Nearing the door, he nearly collapsed against it in relief. 

"Chances are she'll probably just tie it around your penis." 

Oh, God. 

"But even if she does that, you're not to tell her that I'm taking her boyfriend to 500 Miraposa Drive in Scarsdale." Jerry saw spots behind his eyes. He was now sweating profusely. "Jerry?" 

"Yessir," he wheezed. 

"Not even if she does that thing she likes to do where she takes a nail trimmer and slices off your nipples!" 

"Oh, God." 

"What was that?" 

"Nothing," he stammered, heart now pounding viciously in his chest. 

"That's my boy. Go get 'er." 

He downed the rest of the wine and fumbled for his gun. "Right," he finally breathed, all conviction gone. "Sure." 

Gun clutched in his hand, he opened the door to the hallway. 

Nothing. 

"Sir... I don't know where Matthew is." 

"She probably got him. He's probably dead. She's like a cobra." Jerry teetered, legs locking in frozen submission underneath him. Breathing hard, he willed himself to move. "Oh well, Jerry. I'm going to head out. Remember, under no circumstances are you to tell her that we're going to 500 Mariposa Drive in Scarsdale. Nice knowing you." 

"Sir-"

The line clicked, and there was nothing. 

"Crap." 

Terror now invaded him, and as he tried to keep the gun steady, he discovered his hand was now shaking so badly he could barely keep a hold of it. 

The hallway had a door on the right. The closet. The closet where the Emily had been gagged. Bound. 

Oh God. 

He inched forward, pausing to wipe the sweat from his eyes. 

Nails under his fingers. Floss around his dick. His nipples getting cut off-

Oh man. He loved his nipples. 

Ten feet now. Getting closer. 

Maybe they had just left. Maybe he had just lost them. Maybe Agent 99 was having sex with Miranda Priestly right now. That would be nice. 

A thump. A distinctive thump. And a muffled yelp. 

He froze. The tremors now became erratic shakes. 

"Matthew?" he called carefully. Nothing. Of course nothing. Because Matthew was having his dick sawed off by dental floss!

Two feet now. 

He stumbled. When the door burst open, he screamed, hands flailing up as a pale hand reached out, grasped his tie, and yanked him into stifling darkness. 

He was slammed hard into the wall, and there was paint thinner and a broom and oh GOD - who put a RAKE in here? She'd kill him with that! 

And there she was, disarming him and throwing a punch across his jaw that left him dazed, the cold muzzle of a gun pressed into his windpipe, choking him. 

"Where did they go?" she whispered, and there was murder in her eyes. 

He couldn't take it. The panic welled up inside him and spilled over like into hysteria. 

"500 MIRAPOSA DRIVE!" he barked, squirming, hands up. "They went to 500 MIRAPOSA DRIVE! PLEASE DON'T CUT MY DICK OFF!"


	5. (Oh No) You Didn't

_There was something to be said for veterinary appointments with Heathcliff and the twins: they were never boring._

_Andy couldn't say she actually looked forward to the vet visits that the twins insisted she accompany them to, but she owed Miranda. She hated owing Miranda Priestly, but there it was. Any other situation, she would have turned down the woman's offer to cover the expenses immediately, but a life had been at stake. Her ex-boss had ponied up quite the hefty vet bill for the best possible care for Heathcliff, and now it was clear the mutt never had it better._

_Despite the fact that ribs were still showing, he was fattening up nicely, eating better than even poor Patricia, who subsisted on gourmet dog food while Heathliff's doctor prescribed raw diet was lapped up hungrily in the new porcelain bowl. What was once a mangy, flea infested coat was now glossy and shiny. Despite the fact that he was ugly as sin and had a newly amputated front leg, the doggie wagged his tail against the linoleum floor, glancing happily between her and Cassidy, tongue lolling out as Andy offered him a distracted pat._

_"Lindsay Lohan is gay now." Cassidy never looked up as she played with her blinged out Nintendo DS, legs swinging from the chair as she made the bold announcement._

_Beside them, a lady turned up her nose and sniffed, cuddling the Chihuahua in the thousand dollar cashmere sweater closer._

_"Well… I think that's speculation," she began carefully._

_The look that Cassidy threw her over her DS screen clearly told her the girl thought her a few points short of a normal IQ. "She's living with a girl. They're totally gay together."_

_Andy had discovered something about the twins after they came to her rescue and demanded she share custody rights: they were as observant, and as pig-headed, as their mother._

_"Okay," she said, unwilling to get into a 'is she or isn't she' debate about Lindsay Lohan with an eleven year old. "Well, good for her."_

_"Lots of girls are going gay for other girls," Cassidy continued matter-of-factly. "Ellen and Portia are getting married."_

_"… that's great, Cassidy."_

_Heathcliff began to edge carefully toward the Chihuahua, who pricked her ears in interest. The dog's owner took one look at the patch-work colored fur and bandage covering the amputated foot and immediately scooted over one chair._

_Andy rolled her eyes. It wasn't like it was contagious._

_"I'm gonna go gay for someone at school."_

_Her head whipped around so fast she nearly got whiplash. "Come again?"_

_Cassidy swung her legs again. "I'm gonna go gay for someone at school. Her name is Heather."_

_"You're going gay for someone named Heather."_

_"She's thirteen," Cassidy said matter-of-factly._

_Oh, God… this was not happening. Cassidy was not coming out to her in a vet office. "Cassidy… umm…" Pressing her hands against her flushed face, Andy told herself to breathe. "Cassidy, honey, are you sure you're... um... I mean, it's okay if you are-"_

_Brows lifted at her in a perfect imitation of the redhead's mother. "She has breasts."_

_Wow. Okay… that was gay. "Don't you think you might be a little… young?"_

_"Young for what?"_

_"To … um… you know… have a girlfriend."_

_"How old were you when you had a girlfriend?"_

_Crap. "Well… Nine," she admitted, but immediately rushed into an explanation. "But I didn't know what having a boyfriend meant! I mean, we just would eat lunch together and stuff."_

_Cassidy wrinkled her nose at her. "What else would we do?"_

_God-dammit. She just walked right into that one._

_"Nothing," she said, and ignored the indignant huff of the lady beside her, who scooted yet another seat away from them. "Seriously, nothing. That's exactly what you do. That and NOTHING else."_

_"Heather and I eat lunch together, and she pays for stuff. Her mom's gonna take us to the Cirque De Soliel next week."_

_"That sounds nice," she muttered weakly._

_"That's what girlfriends do. And she got a cat and said it could be mine too. We named it Catherine."_

_Oh God, now THAT was lesbian. "Fitting."_

_"Are you and my mom gay for each other?"_

_Andrea choked as if she had been harpooned in the gut. Keeling over, she swallowed a bubble of air and promptly hacked it back up again, face going increasingly red. Heathcliff immediately began to lick at her face._

_"What?!" She managed to finally gasp._

_"You and my mom have a dog together," Cassidy told her matter-of-factly. "And you eat lunch together and stuff. It's the same thing."_

_"It is NOT the same thing!"_

_"Yes it is."_

_"No, it's not!"_

_"Yes, it is!"_

_"Cassidy! Your mom and I are NOT gay for each other! We're…" What… were they exactly? Friends? Barely. Joint-custody owners of a dog so mixed up not even the vet could distinguish what kind of breed it came from? Companions? Okay… that sounded 1950's gay. "Friends," she finished, settling for the safest answer. "Just friends."_

_"Why? What's wrong with her?"_

_Oh, God. There was no winning this conversation. "There's nothing wrong with her."_

_"It's her big nose, huh?"_

_"Your mother does not have a big nose."_

_"She has a big nose. She should get a nose job."_

_"She doesn’t need a nose job."_

_"It's cause she's wrinkled."_

_"No, it's not because she's wrinkled," Andy snapped, exasperated. "It's because we're not gay."_

_"Neither was Lindsay Lohan."_

_Yes, by all means compare them. Inhaling sharply through her nose, Andy willed herself to keep it together. "Honey, I respect your mom."_

_"But you think she's ugly."_

_"No, I think she's beautiful, actually."_

_"She thinks you're beautiful, too."_

_"No, that-" she blinked, thoughts coming to a tumbling, cascading stop. "She does?"_

_Cassidy turned back to the DS. "If you go gay for my Mom, are you gonna start dressing like a guy like Sam?" When Andy could only gape, Cassidy calmly explained, "Because one of you has to be the man. It's the law."_

\--

Though she would never vocalize it Miranda Priestly would quietly admit one weakness: for all her attention to the tiniest minute detail, she did find that she could, on occasion, miss the broader theme. Things that would obvious to anyone else tended to go unnoticed to Miranda Priestly, and she understood that. 

Can't see the forest for the trees, was the saying. 

Too inclined to look at wrinkles and seams and flow. Too distracted by shades of colors or the right bangle or setting the right tone. Too engrossed in merits of brunette or blonde or ginger to take a step back and regard things as an entity.

It was the very reason her affair with Andrea had been such a shock - she had not been aware she had even been attracted to the younger woman until impulse overcame disdain during an argument. 

An unexpected reunion months ago with the brunette reporter left Miranda's hair rising on the back of her neck, unexpectedly chilled. The sudden flash of heat that coursed through her body, and a surge of hate directed at the younger woman when Miranda had long ago told herself Andrea was not worth thinking about was infuriating. 

They were all indications, but Miranda had not seen them. She had been too involved in her feelings, in her affronted anger, because it wasn't even at a dinner, or event in which Miranda had any sort of power. No, instead she had run into Andrea at the veterinarian's office, startled to find Andrea, drenched hair hanging limply in wet tendrils, holding a shivering, whining dog wrapped in her jacket. 

Just a mutt, hit by a cab driver and left for dead. No breed or pedigree. Nuzzling into Andrea's coat and licking her face for relief, of which Andrea could provide none. She was only a poor Samaritan, who could not stand to walk by a broken dog and leave it to its fate. 

Nor could she afford the extravagant costs of an operation. Miranda watched as the girl futzed with her credit cards, trying to see if she could spread the balance, could see the real anguish on her face for a dog she could not even keep. 

In the process, she broke the heart of everyone in that waiting room, with the exception of Miranda. Miranda was too busy looking at details, the way Andrea had kept her weight; the mature, haunted expression on the face she hadn't seen in months. She had been, plainly put, struck dumb, hidden behind a cool shell. 

It was only when Cassidy and Caroline, no longer able to endure Andrea's suffering or the inevitable death of the dog who could not afford treatment, loudly demanded that she cover the costs that Andrea even glanced in her direction. 

That was how Patricia inherited a mutt companion named Heathcliff, a three legged beast with a floppy tongue and the annoying habit of jumping on Miranda's bed and slumping over her hip. 

It was also how Andrea Sachs reentered her life, becoming co-owner to a pet because the twins demanded it, forced Andrea into accepting a role as 'fairy god-mother' to their new pet, demanded visitations and chaperoned trips to the vet. 

And still, Miranda could not see the forest for the trees. Too involved in her search for the details, it never occurred to her that the feeling inside of her was genuine attraction; affection. 

Not until Andrea kissed her, that very first time. 

Today, the feeling was eerily similar, and it sunk down deep inside of her with a knot of tension and something far, far worse, because she saw the forest now. 

She was very much in love with Andrea Sachs, and had been obsessed with details - a party, a reputation, a desperate bid for control in the relationship - she had never seen it. Not until now. 

The phantom image of Andrea sat coolly beside her, legs crossed and face blank and closed. Pale hands smoothed over her dress, sorting through folds of her garment and snapping shut the Bluetooth headset she was twisting off her ear. 

Her very presence suddenly offended Miranda so completely; she felt a wave of nausea. 

"You'll explain to me now exactly why your face so strongly resembles Andrea," she said, voice low and barely unsteady. Long fingers fisted together, and in an effort to control herself, Miranda glanced outside of the window of the rolling car. Her eyes threatened to sting, but she kept the tears from falling. 

To cry at this moment was not an option. To do so would admit defeat, and Miranda would never admit defeat or desperation. 

"I'm afraid that's classified." 

A wave of anger tumbled in her stomach, and she inhaled sharply through her nose, releasing it steadily. "Your classified information has not only been responsible for the kidnapping of someone very close to me, but has resulted in quite a scandal for my reputation." Miranda bit the edge of the sentence with a grind of her teeth. To even think about what the online blogs and tabloids were printing even now was enough to cause a migraine. And yet even that was preferable to think of what kind of danger Andrea was at the hands of a madman. Her head swiveled, locking into the other woman with a fixed stare. "How rich is your agency? Could you afford a suit?"

A ragged sigh, the only indication the woman was in anyway unnerved by what was happening. "I don't know," Miranda heard, before The Woman Who Was Not Andrea broke the stare, eyes turning toward the window. "About a year ago, my cover was blown. The condition for my release into active duty was a complete transformation: blonde to brunette. A few years younger, pigmentation, implants, the works." 

"Is it the regular practice of the United States government to steal the features of an innocent woman and place it on the face of a killer?" 

The woman's hands twitched. "It's not supposed to be." 

"How assuring." 

A hand slapped the leather of the seat beside her, a dull, sharp snap. "Look, how do you think I feel?" Mouth pressed in a grim line, Miranda watched as the agent finally snapped. The grim pouty line of her mouth was now edged with hardness, the moisture in her eyes threatened to spill over. "They changed my entire face. I've spent months looking in the mirror and searching for a piece of myself, and just when I start feeling comfortable with what I look like-" 

"Are you expecting sympathy?" Miranda Priestly would not coddle her. "You are a killer, and a government agent. You are not as young as you look and in all of this, you had a choice. Andrea had no such luxury." 

The petulant face, with Andrea's trembling pouting mouth and her big brown eyes, seemed stunned by the spat response, before the shoulders lifted, and the expression closed once more. 

"We have an address," she said, an abrupt change in conversation. "But 23 knows we're coming. I'm going to take you to our headquarters. You'll need protection, no matter how this plays out-" 

"Are you suggesting I submit myself willingly to the protection of the likes of your agency?" The very idea was laughable. 

"It's not a suggestion." 

How American. "Lovely." Her voice was dry, furious. "And what would you do if your rogue agent decided to pay me a visit? Choreograph a contemporary jazz routine accented in kevlar?" 

An aggravated sigh was her answer. "You're alive, aren't you?" 

"And Andrea is kidnapped. Emily is kidnapped. Both are at the hands of a ruthless madman, and all because my- because Andrea was unlucky enough to have her features plagiarized." 

"We can't worry about that yet." 

"And even if you do succeed in your endeavor," Miranda continued, voice low, quiet, still as a python waiting to strike. "What guarantee do can you assure me that this won't happen again? Some other rogue psychopath who has had the misfortune of crossing paths with you will lay eyes on Andrea and assume that she's a target-"

"Our covers are discreet." 

"Clearly. That was readily apparent today." The phone vibrated. Irv. Miranda pressed ignore. 

"We're going to catch 23, and when we do, this will no longer be an issue. He's setting them up as bait, which means he won't kill them. Not yet. He wants to finish this as much as we do."

"How reassuring," she spat, and her phone buzzed again. On the window, the blinking name of what was more than likely a distraught Beth, forced now to deal with the fall out of their exhibition on the dance floor. She pressed 'ignore'. 

"Besides," 99 continued, speaking almost as if to herself rather than Miranda. "Max is with her. He won't let anything happen to her." 

"Are you referring to the unconscious lump on the floor of the bathroom?" 

That did it. The posture stiffened, the eyes glittered, and it was then that Miranda finally saw the killer she suspected resided beneath Andrea's mask. The glare flared in those luminous eyes was positively murderous. 

And wounded. 

Miranda Priestly was a master at picking at flaws, and she found this agent's immediately, in the form of her partner, and lover, apparently. 

Observing the hurt face, the tears pricking at the dark eyes, Miranda felt a sudden thrill of validation, and it soothed her. Motivation was a tricky thing, but in this, there was now a common goal. 

"Max is GOOD agent," the girl hissed, voice dark and dry and nothing like Andrea at all. "And he's a good man. He'll protect Andrea Sachs with his life, and he'll do whatever it takes to get them out of this." The smirk that creased Miranda's features confused her. The tight features grew befuddled, but then the woman just looked exhausted. "Retract the claws, Ms. Priestly. We'll get your girlfriend back." 

"And after that?' 

"We'll work it out." 

Vagueness was not a quality she appreciated, but as a thundering migraine continued to pulse into Miranda's temples, she did not have the patience or the temperament to continue the argument. Still… there was a formality that had been ignored. 

"My name is Miranda Priestly." The look she received at the statement clearly indicated the other woman thought she might have snapped. Releasing a labored sigh, Miranda arched an eyebrow. "And you are?" 

"Oh." Blinking, the other woman shifted, crossed and recrossed her legs, hesitating in her answer. "You can call me Agent 99." 

"That is not a name." 

A smile was tossed in her direction, empty and strained. "That's what you can call me." 

Wonderful. A secret agent with an identity crisis. 

Again, her phone vibrated in her fingertips, and this time, she was forced to pick up the call. 

"Cassidy, darling." The shrill rant that immediately followed was enough to cause even the agent sitting a foot away to jump in her seat. Miranda closed her eyes and uncurled her fingers, reaching up to massage lightly at her temples. "No, Bobbsy, I'm not familiar with those blogs… 'Oh No They Didn't'? Is that grammatically correct?" Another screech followed. "Hello, Caroline, dear. Darlings, we can discuss this when I get to the house. There are some things Mumsy must take care of first. Caroline!" she snapped sharply. "I realize it was a trifle insensitive to kiss Andrea on the dancefloor in a public venue but I will not take that tone from you. Now I will speak to you shortly. What on earth does a U-Haul have to do with this? Andrea is not moving in. No, this does not mean you will go to live with your father. No, that is not your choice. No, you will not have to start calling Andrea 'Mom'. No, you may not ask her to lose ten pounds. Goodbye."

The migraine was now actively pulsing the vein above her brow, and there a crook in her neck aggravated by Agent 99's manhandling on the dancefloor that left Miranda wearied and frustrated. 

Shutting her eyes, she let her head fall back against the seat. "We'll need to take care of the children," she spoke up quietly. 

"I already have a team of agents stationed outside the townhouse," Agent 99 said a beat later. 

"I would suggest they not try to enter without allowing me to explain things to my daughters. The girls… are a tiny bit aggravated." 

"Yes, they sound lovely," 99 commented mildly. 

\-- 

The citizens of the United States of America slept better at night believing that their country was not run by a bunch of emotional nitwits. 

The Chief did not sleep very well at all. 

The security of the free world rode on his ability to navigate around the cocky son of a bitch that was the Vice President and manage to keep a sense of humor every time the President of the United States asked him to pull his finger. 

None of that was in the secret agent handbook. 

Nor was there any precedent set for dealing with the fact that two of his agents were compromised: one with a duplicate face, and the other in the hands of his former best agent, the psychopathic 23. 

He shook another pair of pills into his palm, and with a tilt back of his head, dry swallowed them. 

"Okay," he said, hacking slightly as the medicine lingered on his tongue. "Explain this to me. Carefully." 

"What's there to explain?" Dr. Michelah seemed entirely too relaxed considering the gravity of the situation. He seemed downright bored, legs crossed like a prima donna, inspecting his fingernails and using a Kleenex plucked off the Chief's desk to try and dig the grime out from under them. 

"How about starting with how one of my top female agents went into facial reconstruction and came out a Xerox copy?" 

"Oh, that could happen to anyone." 

"Oh, you're chalking this up to coincidence?" His blood pressure was getting higher. Any minute the blood was going to mount higher, and shoot out his ears like a geyser. 

"Look, you wanted a beautiful face, you got one. She came out perfect." 

"I wanted a beautiful ORIGINAL face!" he screeched, slamming his hand down at the desk. "Not one that had already been walking around for twenty-odd years." 

"Well, then you should have been more specific." 

"Listen you little-" Dr. Michelah immediately scrambled, shoving off the chair and just out of reach of his outstretched fingers.

"Hey, hey! Relax! Look, how were we supposed to know this was going to happen?" 

"How were you suppose to- are you listening to yourself?" 

"What?! We do it all the time!" 

"Excuse me?" 

"Do you know how hard it is to create a face from scratch and make it look NORMAL?" Dr. Michelah, now beet red, straightened his tie, fussing with his belt, trying to regain his refined experience. "This is human SKIN we're talking about! Manmade looks… MANMADE! It's… easier if we take a face that we've seen and reconstruct it. Add some differences sure, but this one…" 

"This one what?" 

He shrugged, and smiled. "I liked it. I saw this girl once, in a Starbucks in New York, looking harried and worried, and so very sweet, gabbing on her phone about trying to get some Harry Potter book, and I just… I fell in love with that face. I never forgot it." 

"You fell in love with a face," The Chief breathed incredulously. 

"Look, you wanted the best face for your best agent, so I gave you my best face. You said so yourself! 99 looked perfect!

"And it never occurred to you that she might run INTO this other woman at some point?" 

"If it came to that, I'd figure she'd just kill her." 

Moron. "It doesn’t work that way, Michelah." 

"It should. It'd make my job a whole lot easier." 

"Michelah." 

"Well, how was I supposed to know that the girl would end up being the lover to Miranda Priestly of all people!" Michelah shook his head, hands on his hips, before peering in and looking at the bridge of the Chief's nose.

He blinked, suddenly self conscious. "What?" 

"You know, I can take care of that scar if you want. Just zap it away." 

Flabbergasted, he could only gape. Jerking toward his desk, he grabbed hold of his pills, fumbling with the child safety cap. "We can't bench 99. She's my best agent. You will fix this. We will fix this." 

"Impossible." Michelah shook his head. "Do you know how traumatic a complete facial reconstruction is? I had to break bones. Implant pigment. A complete hair transplant!" The two pills he tossed into the back of his mouth got stuck in his larynx. "Are you okay?" 

Two hacking coughs and the pills were on their way down. "Well, we can't exactly put Miss Sachs into witness protection. Her face is plastered over every newspaper and blog in the country!" 

Michelah smiled. 

"What's so funny?" 

"Not funny," he said, and released a satisfied sigh. "Just… proud. I really nailed her, didn't I? Even down to the smile. Damn, I'm good!"

"Listen, you little-" The globe paperweight went sailing so quickly Dr. Michelah didn't have time to duck. 

A squelch later, the good doctor was slumped on the floor, mouth open, head bleeding, looking dazed. "You're just jealous," he wheezed.


	6. My Girlfriend, the Hero

500 Miraposa Drive in Scarsdale was an average high-priced house that bore no unique characteristics that could separate from any of the other average high-priced houses that lined the block. 

There was no security gate. No guard dogs roaming about. A small security sticker on one of the front windows that warned potential burglars that the house was under regular 'neighborhood cop' protection, just like everyone else, but that was it. Just a beautiful house with a pristine lawn, timed sprinklers and motion controlled lights. 

Dwayne Johnson was a master of disguise, but there was something to be said for hiding in the open. 

And besides, inside the house was a different story altogether. 

The house, used during the civil war as a pit stop for the Underground Railroad, boasted a neat little tunnel that moved under the house and exited through a small mound in the back yard. Plenty of hidden rooms hidden behind carefully coordinated moldings and triggers. Renovations had opened these tunnels wider, and now hidden in every nook and cranny of his perfectly normal looking house was an expensive surveillance system and a cache of weapons and cash from a dozen different countries.

Motion sensors, heat sensors, black lights. If there was another place to set a trap, Dwayne Johnson certainly wouldn't know it.

He was the best, after all. Even if Max-y and 99 had managed to beat him once, it wasn't because they were better than him. It was because he had gotten lazy. He had made the mistake of underestimating the boyscout once, had even liked the harmless old fool. 

No more. No more being lazy. No more over-confident blunders. He was the best damned agent in the world, and this was going to prove it once and for all. 

And fucking Max-y would be out of the way forever. 

But not before 99 paid the price for being the only woman in the world to reject him. 

Security cameras flickered on quickly, as he settled his muscled body into the plush leather chair of his hidden study, pausing momentarily on the slightly grainy image of a unconscious Max and Andrea Sachs, bound and gagged together in one of his upstairs bedrooms. 

Nothing too challenging. Given Max's penchant for clumsiness and over-confidence it would be at least a half hour before they even woke up and managed to get themselves out of their binds. 

99 was less predictable. She had never been the impulsive type, never been the sort to be in over her head. She learned from her mistakes and she corrected them, and the last time she had been impulsive, she had blown her cover and lost her face. 

But he had Max-y, and if he knew anything at all about his girl, it was that 99 knew how to take an insult and give it right back. 

She'd be tricky. She'd make it personal. 

That made her dangerous. 

"I'm not doing this." 

Dwayne turned and arched a brow at the red-haired wisp of a woman at his desk. She pulled angrily at the gleaming handcuffs that kept her seated there, and turned a disgusted eye to the mounds of paperwork that littered her workspace. 

Pushing his palms together, he cocked his head. He hadn't seen such a sheer glare of hatred in a long, long time. The only people scarier than killers and murderers were people in fashion. 

He had to admit, that impressed him. The company of a like-minded person was kinda nice. 

"I thought we had an understanding." 

"Playing your stand-in assistant was not part of the deal!" Emily insisted, and wrinkled her freckled nose, lifting up a receipt stained with coffee. 

"I thought that was the deal exactly." And it had been a good one, he thought. When he had still been infiltrated in Control, he had access to the best accountants, the best bookkeepers, and to Aggie, this little old lady who kept his balls in her two hands like a drill sergeant, and kept every moment of his life organized on a neat little calendar that synced to his Blackberry. 

He missed her. 

It was a problem with going rogue and freelance. He couldn't be expected to keep up with everything. And aspiring evil people tended to be really obsessed with trying to take over the world and wanting to kill people and less concerned about tallying receipts and making the proper deductions. 

"Exactly what kind of criminal organization do you work for that allows you to write off breakfast with Tim Allen?" 

"That's my business." The gruff answer, coupled with his low, threatening growl and scathing glare, was usually good enough for anyone who dared to even look him in the eyes. Apparently that was not the case for Little-Miss-Delusional. "What kind of name is KAOS for an evil empire?" 

"It's a good name." 

"It's ridiculous. It sounds like a mockery of a bad James Bond film."

He frowned, eyes narrowing. "Which one?" 

"Excuse me?" 

"Which Bond?" 

"Does it matter?" 

"Yes. All Bonds were not created equal." 

An exaggerated roll of her eyes was her response, as she kept digging through the folder. "You haven't kept any sort of recognizable filing system for a year and you expect me to organize all this for your evil organization in one afternoon?" 

"Try half an hour," he said, glancing at his watch. "I figure we have a least that before 99 shows up and Max wakes up from the drugs. From then it'll just be pure fun, no time to worry about all of that. Which means you better hurry." 

"Half an hour?" 

"I can keep you longer." 

"Sod you." She looked utterly miserable, handcuff clinking as she attempted to reposition receipts and get them into some sort of working order. "You're lucky I'm used to impossible demands." 

"Relax and maybe I won't kill you," he told her, which was a complete lie. Everyone was going to die. That simply was the way of things. But she was much better off not knowing that. 

At least not yet. 

A button nose lifted up and green eyes glared. "You kill me and Miranda Priestly will murder you. She needs me." 

Oh God-dammit. That name. Again. The name that this obsessed girl would not stop uttering like some sort of Buddhist chant. Between her and the drugged 99 look alike who kept whispering the name like it was damned porno, he was going to go insane.

Well, more insane. 

Immediately, he unclipped the Glock from the holster on his shoulder and pointed it idly in her direction. "What was the condition for not gagging you?" 

Emily's mouth closed, but her eyes glittered with loathing. 

He wasn't gonna lie; it was kind of a turn on. 

"Good. Glad we understand each other." 

With a happy grin, he swiveled back to the monitor, humming lightly. Behind him, the papers continued to shuffle. 

Dwayne grinned, raising his arms behind his head and sighing in contentment. He fiddled again with the monitors and reached for the chilled soda he had brought up from the kitchen. 

Things were definitely looking up. 

"Wanna watch some tv?" he asked conversationally.

A crumbled wad of paper bounced off his head. 

\--

_Concentrate on the mission. Concentrate on Max. Because Agent 23 will only be concentrating on you and you're his end game. He wants you dead. It's so much easier to kill you that it is to stay alive._

_And he's setting a trap. You're on his turf and Max kissing him into submission won't work a second time._

Agent 99 was used to lurking in the shadows; calling attention to herself only when the situation demanded it. 

She was used to controlling every aspect of any situation, and although she worked in a business that made a habit of coming at her with the unexpected, she discovered all that really meant was that the job required quick thinking and a slight amount of flexibility. 

But this… this was a horse of a very, very different color. 

The minute they pulled up to the townhouse, and the door to the limo opened she had been blinded by flashes. 

The questions came as fast as gunfire.

"Ms. PRIESTLY! Why did you choose to out your relationship at this particular event!"   
"Ms. Sachs, were you sleeping with Miranda when you were working with her?"   
"-Is it true you got a six-figure offer to pose for Playboy?!" 

Panicking for one millisecond, 99 nearly reached underneath her the long skirt of her dress for the magnum she carried and mowed every one of those damned reporters down. 

"Oh come on," Miranda hissed, and before 99 was quite prepared for it, the older woman grabbed hold of her hand and yanked her out of the car, nearly forcing the usually graceful agent to fall flat on her face. 

For her part, the famed 'Dragon Lady' seemed to not notice the migraine-inducing chaos at all. Head held high, Miranda kept her palm clutched in a vice grip, nearly dragging her along as they were escorted by the waiting security guards up the stairs and toward the front door. 

Before they even arrived at the last step, the door flew open, and 99 was greeted with identical pairs of green eyes, belonging to twin redheaded girls.

Two sets of miniature Priestly glares set upon her, before little hands reached out and yanked her into the house, tearing her from Miranda's grasp and sending her nearly toppling forward a second time. 

"Get in here," spat one, and didn't even allow 99 the luxury of catching her breath before she was pulled viciously through a pristine hallway and shoved into an adjoining study. "You both have ruined my life!" 

"Girls," began Miranda, but it was the only word she could get out before a blur of mottled colors came streaking into the room, yapping excitedly and nearly pummeling into the silver-haired woman, sending the woman staggering back. 

"How could you!" the same girl screeched. The other one looked so calm it was disturbing. She merely waltzed into the room and settled on the sofa, picking up the remote control. 

99, head pounding and ears ringing, opened her mouth, and then closed it again, upon discovering that the dog that was now trying to very inappropriately nose around Miranda Priestly's crotch only had three legs. 

What was odder still, was that the woman barely seemed to notice it. Instead she immediately patted the mutt on the head and allowed it to stand on its hind legs and attempt to lick at her chin. Miranda evaded the kisses without thought, but the sight of a three-legged mutt slurping at Miranda Priestly's ivory neck with a happy pant was nearly as disturbing as watching the Mona Lisa get hit with a water balloon. 

A huge Saint Bernard ambled in and calmly collapsed in the corner, big furry paws folding over each other, before its head rested daintily on top of them, eyeing the proceedings with a wearied somber expression as the dramatic twin kept screeching about moving to Canada.

"Girls, calm down this instant. I will explain the situation to you but only if you remember your manners-" 

"You're on the tv again!" the other one squealed. Little legs kicked happily against a cushioned seat and tiny fingers pointed to a flat screen television hoisted elegantly over the mantle. 

Sure enough, splashed over the screen with the words 'SCANDAL AT CHARITY AUCTION' were images of the two of them exiting the Plaza hotel, mobbed with paparazzi and that poor assistant who looked ready to faint. 

"Heathcliff, down!" Miranda said, finally losing patience with the mutt, and shoving him down on his rump. The dog happily sat, tail wagging before he glanced at 99 and began a happy bound in her direction. 

"You've ruined my life!" cried the other one, in the middle of a very dramatic tantrum, which ebbed only slightly when the three-legged dog named Heathcliff stopped short of her, offered her a sniff and then a sudden growl. 

"Heathcliff's pissed too," said the other one happily, and then offered a triumphant grin in her direction. "Heather thinks you're hot, Andy." 

"Who on earth is Heather?" 

"This house is so GAY now!" sniveled the other one and then grabbed hold of Heathcliff's collar, and dragged the growling, sputtering animal away from 99. "And why do you smell weird?" 

Overwhelmed, 99 blinked. "I'm sorry?" Before she could catch herself, she was suddenly sniffing self consciously. 

"Cesar Milan says that dogs feed off smells and energy," said the girl in the couch, eyes glued to the television. "You're not being the calm assertive pack leader right now." 

"Oh," she said, and when Miranda tossed her a disgusted look, felt uncharacteristically idiotic. "Girls… uh… twins?" 

That earned her a very frightening set of glares. 

"Your mother and I need to explain something to you right now," she said, eyes narrowing at Miranda meaningfully. "And very quickly." 

"I know how lesbians have sex," said the one on the couch, now fiddling with a laptop. "Heather and I read a book. You're on Perez now." 

Heathcliff the three-legged dog continued to stare at her, teeth bared slightly. 

"Mommy, I'm not calling her mom!" The pronouncement came from the hysterical twin, who was holding onto Heathcliff distractedly. "And when did Andy get fat!" 

"Excuse me?!" 

"You're on defamer," said the other one, clicking again. 

"This woman is not Andrea," Miranda snapped, and 99 rolled her eyes, thanking heavens for small favors. Feeling weak, she slumped into an empty uncomfortable chair and buried her head in her hands. "And those are muscles, girls, not fat. Now please sit down and allow me to explain things to you very quickly, because Andrea needs our help." 

99 considered very thoroughly whether it would do any good to give into her impulses and start laughing hysterically like a demented stressed out agent in the room with a three legged dog, a Saint Bernard, Miranda Priestley and her two mini-clones. 

_Oh, Max_ , she thought to herself. Even if he was out cold, locked up, and kidnapped by the world's most dangerous spy, he had to be having an easier time with Andrea Sachs and Agent 23 than she was having managing in the world of the great Miranda Priestly.

At the moment, she kinda hated him for it. 

\--

_Andrea's Saturday morning began with a call from her editor at 6AM. Haggard and underpaid, he was never pleasant on weekends; particularly weekend mornings._

_Neither, for that matter, was Andrea, who was immediately informed that not only did she have a deadline pushed up to 1PM that afternoon when she had previously been given the whole week, but she had also been elected to attend a charity auction that evening._

_Because of damned Kimberly and her maternity leave and Steve's completely inability to take her 'absolutely not' for an answer._

_"Like it or not, Andy," he told her, in a flippant manner, "Aside from Kimberly, you're the only reporter we have who's under a size 8, looks decent in a photo, and knows how talk to these people in a way that won't send them running in another direction."_

_"What about Mark?"_

_"Mark? You're kidding, right? The last time I tried to send Mark to one of these things, he saw the PETA people outside and they talked him into dumping a bucket of paint all over Karl Lagerfeld's new model. No. This may seem like fluff, but this charity raises a lot of money for the homeless. We owe it to them to give them some good press, not a scandal. Get a new dress, and cover this event. That's not a request."_

_The devastation she felt over not being able to see Miranda that night was a tad over-dramatic, even Andy would admit that, but it put her in a horrendous mood._

_There hadn't even been much time to sulk, because of her damned pushed up deadline. That only made her already surly condition worse._

_When her phone rang, Andy was in the middle of rushing toward a subway entrance, frazzled and bumping elbows and shoulders with the midday Saturday crush._

_She was hot, sweaty and her feet ached thanks to the sixteen blocks she had practically sprinted to get to the crowded entrance._

_The glowering faces of the New York residents who weaved around her when she swerved to a stop against the flow of traffic did not help._

_In retrospect, it was probably not the best idea to pick up the phone when Andy saw it was Miranda, but her lover was demanding, and did not leave voicemails._

_Which incidentally, always drove Andy crazy, because Miranda took it as some grave sort of insult when Andy didn't pick up right away, no matter what the circumstances. and got into a serious huff the one time Andy didn't call back, because it had been an extremely busy day and since there had been no voicemail, she had made the mistake of assuming Miranda had had no real purpose. Andy found it eternally confounding how the woman was nearly twice her age and seemed to sometimes possess the emotional maturity of a stump._

_And at this moment, she was not willing to jump through the hoops it usually took to maintain a civil conversation with a woman who lived on an entirely different plane of thought reserved for celebrities and really rich people who did not understand what it meant to be told 'no'._

_"Hi," she said, trying to weave out of the line of fire when a guy in a suit gave her a dirty look._

_"I don't have long," Miranda said, obviously distracted. "But I'll expect to be free after eight pm. Order something appropriate from the bistro around the corner, you have my card."_

_The credit card, of course. Because Miranda insisted that she take it the last time she came over and discovered, to her horror, that Andy had decided 'dinner' was to consist of local Chinese take out._

_The MSG had nearly put her sleep and Miranda had spent half the night in the bathroom. She almost left her over it._

_"Actually, Miranda, I'm not free tonight after all."_

_The wave of people flowing in and out of the subway entrance was vaguely overwhelming, and Andy muted her sigh as she checked her watch, wincing at the time._

_"Pardon?"_

_"I said I wasn't free."_

_"I heard you, Andrea, I was expecting an explanation," came the snippy response, and Andy did not resist the urge to roll her eyes, and despite the nagging voice in her head that told her she did not technically need to offer any sort of explanation, found herself rambling on anyway._

_"I told you Kimberly was on call, and now apparently Steve promised to give this charity some of legit coverage that isn't … fluffy. I have to be at the Plaza tonight. I have no idea what time I'll be out." Miranda hated to be disappointed, but Andrea did not expect the long silence that came at the tail end of her statement. "Hello?"_

_"Did you say the Plaza?"_

_Yes, she said the damned Plaza. "Yes. We don't usually cover these things, but apparently Steve really believes in the cause. Now I have… like two hours to find a decent dress-" she closed her eyes in muted frustration. "Miranda, I hate to ask you this, but is there anyway Beth can sneak me something out of the Close-"_

_"Absolutely not."_

_Of course not. "Right. Dumb idea."_

_"Andrea, under no circumstances are you to go anywhere near that charity event."_

_The command left her blinking dumbly. "What?"_

_"Promise me you will not be there tonight."_

_"But I have to be there," Andy said, like an idiot. "Steve said…"_

_"Steve said," came the gross mimic, and Andy caught herself flinching, unsure why the acidic remark came right back her so meanly. "Since when have you been such a blind follower, Andrea?"_

_Mouth dropping open in surprise, Andy's fingers clenched around the phone, and she glanced helplessly as the stream of people continued to pour out of the subway entrance._

_"Andrea?"_

_And then, just like that, she put the pieces together. It was really idiotic it had taken her that long. "You're going to be there tonight, aren't you?"_

_"Of course, I'm going to be there tonight," came the clipped response, exasperated tone leaking through Miranda's cool indifference. "_

_Andy's shoulders slumped, and she suddenly felt exhausted. Of course. Now it made sense. Miranda and her ever-increasing paranoia about being outed, because the longer this went on, the likelier it would be that someone would slip and then the press-_

_Cutting off the sudden onslaught of thoughts before she lost herself in the possibilities, Andy sucked in her breath and attempted to be reasonable. "Okay, look it's not that big a deal. We don't even have to pretend to know each other-"_

_"Are you suggesting we ignore each other?"_

_"Miranda, no one will expect me to talk to you anyway. Everyone at _Runway_ thinks we still hate each other-" _

_"Do you honestly think I care the slightest bit about what my employees think?"_

_Okay, fine. A shiver of anger settled into her spine and made it's way up, vertebrae by vertebrae. "Well, then don't worry about it. The last thing I want is to cause a scandal. I think we can be adults and avoid each other for one evening."_

_"It's that easy for you?"_

_"Pardon?"_

_"To just ignore me?"_

_Oh, for the love of- "Of course not. I'm just saying that if that's what's bothering you-"_

_"You clearly do not have the slightest idea what is bothering me."_

_"Then what is this about, Miranda? Because I have a job to do and I intend to do it."_

_"I'm sure 'Steve' can find a replacement."_

_"It's not up to you whether or not I get to come," she spat, losing her patience. "And I don't have time to argue this right now."_

_"Fine." The line clicked and disconnected before she even had a chance to draw in her breath._

\--

Consciousness was forced upon her when her leg spasmed and kicked out, banging against a wooden post and causing a painful yelp. Andy Sachs sat up so quickly the blood in her drugged system didn't have time to catch up and properly distribute, and the result was a gag, a sickly pale expression, and the young woman falling back, groaning loudly and muttering a series of curses that made Max blush. 

His own head was ringing, and he was dangerously close to puking out his breakfast, but Max was resilient and had made a point to keep his body completely motionless, despite being put in the most uncomfortable position that made his spine curl and would earn him a very mean glare from both his personal trainer and chiropractor. 

"Andy Sachs?" he managed, cheek plastered against the carpet. "Are you okay?" 

An angry groan was his response, and Max sighed, sucking in a deep breath and trying to use his peripherals to see where the cameras were located. Because there had to be cameras in this room. It was a given. 

Unfortunately, he was never good with using his peripherals. He tended just to widen his eyes and all that did was make him wish he had access to Visine. 

"Andrea Sachs!" he tried again, keeping his tone down, a low and gentle hiss. "Are you okay?" 

A moment of agonized moaning and then it was quiet. "… crazy guy from the hotel?" 

Good enough. "I want you to listen to me very carefully, Andrea Sachs."

"What's going on?" 

His cheek was numb from the carpet. "… I'm about to tell you." 

"Who are you? Where are we? Why does my head hurt?" 

He willed for patience. "I'm trying to explain that to you." 

"I'm gonna hurl." 

"Please don't," he said, and winced, his stomach gurgling in protest. "I'm a sympathetic vomiter, and if you do that then I'll be forced to do the same." 

"Huh?" 

"Smell. Sound. Sight. Any of it will send a chain reaction. Even speaking of it is making me very nauseous. I can feel my stomach acids gurgling." 

"Augh. Now I want to hurl even more." 

"Please, Miss Sachs. I need you to listen to me. We have been kidnapped by a rogue agent; a traitor to this country, who has kidnapped up in an obvious trap for me and Agent 99. At the moment it's unclear whether or not he has discovered that you are not her, but until then, I need you to be very quiet, and very careful, because this entire room could be one big booby trap. Just the slightest move forward could send us both to a very painful death." 

It was a long winded statement, but he thought he had it call covered. On the bed above him, Andrea kept silent.

"That's it," she said suddenly. "I'm tripping. This is a hallucination and I've dreamt myself into a bad seventies spy movie." 

"Pardon?" 

"I knew that James Bond marathon was going to bite me in the ass." 

"Andrea Sachs, please. I need your help." 

"Maxwell Smart, right?" 

At least it was coming back to her. "Yes, that is my name. Now I’m sure my partner 99 is launching a rescue investigation right now, but until then we must remain calm, and discover exactly what this room holds for us in order to escape Agent 23's clutches and get ourselves free." 

"I'm totally gonna hurl." 

His stomach cramped in reaction, and Max gritted his teeth. "Please don't. Please don't. Please don't." 

"Distraction," he heard. "Distraction is the key. Think happy thoughts. Think non-gross thoughts. Think of how happy Miranda will be when I wake up and I'm not dead. So she can kill me herself." 

"Miranda?" he asked, voice strained, eyes shut tight. 

"My girlfriend. Holy shit, I just called Miranda Priestly my girlfriend. Is someone your girlfriend if you're sleeping with them all the time but you're totally in the closet?" 

Head swimming, Max tried to keep up. "I hear celebrities do it all the time." 

"Lindsay Lohan is a lesbian," she informed him gravely. "She's totally gone gay." 

"That's great." 

"I have a three-legged dog named Heathcliff." 

"Also stupendous. I have a little pooch myself." 

"Three-legged."

"No, he has all four. My… girlfriend gave him to me." 

"I bet you ten bucks my girlfriend is scarier than yours." 

He managed a grim smile. "I'm not so sure about that."

"Wanna bet?" 

"I don't gamble." 

"Great, now I’m bored and I'm nauseous." 

Again with the nausea. "Would you please stop mentioning that?" 

"Cause you'll hurl?" 

"Exactly." 

A pause. "You're not like the spies in the James Bond movies." 

"No, I'm not," he admitted. 

"That 99 girl is your girlfriend, right? That's why you kissed me?" 

At least she was coherent enough to start put things together. "Yes." 

"So we're waiting for your girlfriend to come save us?" 

"Basically." 

"So you're like the damsel-in-distress." Max winced. "Huh. How progressive."


	7. Heather and the Evil Slut-Mother

_No matter how many times she had been here, Andy Sachs told herself she would never feel comfortable in Miranda Priestly's home._

_Pavlovian response forbid it. She had been trained entirely too well. It was all she could do whenever she entered the grand hallway not to immediately put whatever she had in her hands on the desk, open the cabinet, toss in a coat and get the hell out of there._

_Luckily, or unluckily, as misfortune would have it, Andy never had much time to ponder her mental freeze. The twins dragged her everywhere she needed to go. The minute she rang the doorbell, the door would eek open, one of two sets of identical green eyes would peek through the crack, and suddenly little pale hands would shoot out like a striking python, and grab hold of her wrist, dragging her inside and through the hallway, talking a mile a minute._

_Andy felt like she had been dragged through the entire house at one point or another._

_Today, she had been yanked into the living room, and there was no time to ponder the very breakable looking crystal vases with the very expensive fresh flowers artfully arranged on every surface. She was too busy trying to listen to Caroline's advice._

_The little redhead, still dressed in her school uniform, accessorized to a hilt, knelt on the floor and held a treat between her manicured fingers._

_"Cesar says that you have to exhibit calm energy." Caroline paused to stare judgmentally in the direction of Andy and Heathcliff. "Calm assertive energy, Andy," she ordered again._

_Feeling like a chastised five year old, Andy resisted the urge to stick out her tongue. "I'm assertive," she insisted, straightening up. "And we're just clipping his nails."_

_Which, she would admit, was not as easy as it sounded. Heathcliff, usually happy and affectionate, now kept his ears down close to his forehead, eyes narrowed suspiciously at the clippers in Andy's hand. He had edged away slowly, and despite having only three legs, exhibited an impressive strength as he tugged hard at the leash, nearly flopping Andy over._

_Caroline thrust the treat forward and waved underneath the dog's nose. He immediately jerked his head away, uttering a low growl. A frown pursed on Caroline's lips. "He's not taking the treats," she said, and straightened. "That's a bad sign."_

_Well, it certainly wasn't a good one. "Doesn't the groomer usually do this?"_

_"Not since Heathcliff bit him and he threatened to sue. Now Mom says you have to do it."_

_Right. This was going to be fun._

_Sucking in her breath in an unspoken supplication for strength, Andy squared her shoulders and put down the clippers, working instead on inching the stiffening dog back toward her side. Once again, a low growl worked its way up his throat, and despite the urge to shudder, Andy hoisted her arms around his middle, taking care to avoid the bandage that stretched over where the amputated foot would have been._

_Clearly, Heathcliff was on to her. The minute she reached with her free hand toward the clippers, he whimpered loudly and began to shuffle._

_"Okay…" Heathcliff skidded with his back paws, slipping with his too-long nails on the slippery polished wood. Andy tightened her hold and kept him close. "Hand me the clippers."_

_At the mention of the word, Heathcliff yelped and dug his feet into Andy's thighs. The nails scratched even through her jeans, and she grimaced at the welt she knew she would have later. "How the hell did they do this at the doctors?!"_

_"They sedated him," Caroline said, watching the proceedings with what looked like morbid fascination._

_Without the fourth leg to act as an anchor, Heathcliff was proving slippery as an eel, and Andy was growing embarrassingly sweaty._

_When Heathcliff slipped out of her grasp the fourth time, Andy took a deep breath and tossed an impatient smile to her spectator. "Here's an idea. Why don't I hold him, and you use the clippers?"_

_"No way." Caroline's curly tendrils trembled as she shook her head expressively. "I don't want to hurt him. I'll cut the quick. I know I will."_

_"Okay, so why don't you hold the dog?"_

_"I'm in my uniform!" Yeap. This was Miranda's daughter all right. Exhaling loudly through her nose, Andy wiped at a black bang plastered to her face and re-examined her predicament._

_Heathcliff, tail between his legs, had slipped underneath the lounging chair, and now had his head between his paws, obviously trying to make himself invisible._

_His black snout peaked at her like a turtle inching out of his shell._

_"So Cassidy's like… gay now. With this girl named Heather." Caroline announced this as she plucked at her knee length socks, making sure they stayed perfectly in place. "They're together all the time."_

_"I may have heard something about that," Andy admitted, not wanting to see Caroline's expression as she began to crawl across the wooden floor, inching down to peer underneath the lounging chair and at Heathcliff''s trembling frame._

_"I think she's doing it to get attention."_

_Pausing momentarily, Andy blew a bang out of her face and arched a delicate brow at the twin. "Why do you think that?"_

_Caroline shrugged, once again working to arrange her socks, before moving on to pluck at a piece of lint on her pleated skirt. "Why wouldn’t she?"_

_Angling on her belly like a worm, Andy reached under the seat and grunted, dragging Heathcliff forward only a half inch. "Maybe she actually really likes Heather."_

_"But Heather looks like a boy," Caroline stated flatly, and Andy muted a hesitant smile at the sudden memory of Cassidy frank view of lesbian couples._

_"Well one of them has to be the boy," she repeated, before she could stop herself. Caroline didn't respond, and when Andy finally tossed her a sweaty glance, the girl was glaring._

_"That is so stupid," Caroline said simply. "And ignorant."_

_"Sorry," Andy replied, and sat up. "I really don't think that. Do you really have a problem if Cassidy really was gay?"_

_Still fixated on her clothes, Caroline offered a carefully uncaring shrug. "She wasn't supposed to be gay." Andy bit her lip. The always present demand of expectation. "We were supposed to do all this stuff together."_

_"What kind of stuff?" Andy asked gently._

_"I don't know." Caroline shrugged. "We're twins, you know? We should be like… like inseparable. We used to be like that."_

_"But not anymore."_

_Bringing her knees up to her chest, Caroline rested her cheek against them, and said nothing, retreating into her sullen incorrigible self._

_Great. One twin was gay and wanted her to be gay with her mother and the other one was … lonely._

_How on earth did she get mixed up in all this? As if to remind her, Heathcliff tried to make an escape. Immediately, Andy grabbed hold of his paw, sending him skittering back underneath his chair._

_"You know she'll always be your sister, right?" The moment she said it, she knew how stupid it was. From the glare Caroline sent her way, she thought so too._

_"You don’t know what its like," Caroline told her flatly. "You don't have anyone that looks just like you."_

_True. "Maybe," she acknowledged, "But I do have a sister."_

_"She's not your twin though."_

_Andy opened her mouth to respond, thought better of it, and snapped it shut. Maneuvering Heathcliff's paws, she tried a different tactic, bracing herself against the chair and tugging. "Seriously, can you help me get the dog?"_

_This time, Caroline actually came forward, flattening herself along the floor beside Andy and peering under the sofa._

_"What on earth are you two doing?"_

_Andy was so startled by the sudden demanding question she nearly yelped, dropping Heathcliff's paw and whirling around to face the doorway. There stood Miranda, palm lightly resting atop the doorknob, staring down at the two of them through her spectacles with a look that would have been defined as bewildered on anyone else. On Miranda, it simply looked like another glare._

_As always the case in the presence of Miranda, Andy felt her heart drop, and her temperature rise. Plastering on a smile that even felt idiotic, she blinked and quickly brushed at the bangs that fell into her eyes._

_"Miranda! Hi!"_

_Miranda's brow rose a barely discernable centimeter, and then the eyes went rolling, head shaking in ill-disguised impatience._

_"We're clipping the dog's nails," Caroline chirped, not at all perturbed._

_"And that requires prostrating yourself in front of the mutt on a dirty floor in your school uniform?"_

_"He's being difficult," Andy responded stiffly._

_"No, Andrea. This is a dog." The statement caused a befuddled frown, and this time Miranda exhaled loudly. "Caroline get up off that floor immediately and change into proper attire."_

_Proper attire? What was the proper attire for crawling around on the floor?_

_"Oh, relax Mom, geez." Still, Caroline scrambled to her feet, and after a quick smile to Andy, skipped out of the room. The thundering sounds of shoes running up the steps followed. Andy discovered herself hiding a smirk at the look of quiet resigned misery on Miranda's face._

_And then Miranda settled that hawk gaze on her, and the smile froze._

_"Well?"_

_Andy blinked, suddenly insecure. "Well, what?"_

_"Are we going to be here all night or are you going to clip that dog's nails?"_

_"I'm trying."_

_"No, you're perspiring."_

_"The dog won't come out from under the chair!"_

_"Oh for goodness' sake." Miranda strode into the room, heels clicking on the wood and quirked a finger at the dog. "Heathcliff, here."_

_Of course, the dog WOULD immediately crawl out of his hiding space and do Miranda's bidding._

_"Sit." The dog sat. Traitor, Andy thought. "Andrea, the clippers."_

_Red-faced and simultaneously awed and cowed, Andrea got to her feet and reached for the clippers, handing them to a waiting Miranda._

_"Heathcliff?" Though he whimpered, the dog immediately lifted his paw, and sat silently while Miranda worked. "That's all," she said when it was over, and Heathcliff wagged his tail and lolled his tongue and received a pat on the head as a reward. The look Miranda reserved for Andy was not nearly as charitable. "What on earth was so difficult about that?"_

_Unexpectedly, Andrea smiled. It seemed to catch Miranda by surprise, and yet the befuddled look on the attractive face just broadened Andy's expression._

_"May I ask what the joke is?"_

_"No joke," Andrea said, and brought her knees forward, settling comfortably against the wood as Heathcliff came and settled down beside her. "I just finally get what Caroline means by calm, assertive energy."_

_Another look, this one annoyed, and yet Andrea just shrugged, oddly content to be quiet with the great and imposing Miranda Priestly. She discovered, as their eyes met and the silence grew, that she liked looking at her._

_Miranda soon lost her patience, and held out the clippers, allowing her to take them. "I expect you to do this from now on," she said crisply._

_"Yes, Miranda," she answered obediently. Unable to help herself, she smiled again._

_The older woman stared down at her, meeting her eyes as if it were some sort of challenge. But Andrea, oddly enough, was not threatened or frightened. She just… liked looking._

_Andy had been so afraid of looking directly at Miranda Priestly it never occurred to her to really look, and now she could. And Miranda Priestly just had a beautiful face._

_The jolt of dreamy affection caught her by surprise, and suddenly Andy stiffened, no longer comfortable, no longer happy, just confused. She wiped again at her bangs, and began to quickly get to her feet, cheeks suddenly flaming with heat. "Well, I should go."_

_"If you must," replied the other woman in that same calm, assertive tone._

__Oh I must,_ Andy thought to herself, jittery and unsure. _I really must_. "Thanks for your help with… you know… this-" _

_She waved the clippers and ducked her head, moving past Miranda Priestly and running smack into her daughter._

_"Where are you going?" Caroline asked, tugging at the expensive sweats she had deemed 'proper attitre'._

_"Home."_

_To her surprise, little eyes widened with disappointment. "You can't go. We have to watch 'The Dog Whisperer'."_

_"We do?"_

_"Yeah. And then Dogtown."_

_"Caroline, I suspect Andy has many things she needs to do today."_

_"No, Mom, she can't go yet." Caroline reached forward, tangling their fingers, and the touch of the little girl was enough to remind Andy… that the girl was lonely. "She can stay for dinner, right?"_

_Suddenly torn, Andy glanced back at Miranda. Her former boss wore a puckered frown. Her glasses were now held delicately by a stem between elegant fingertips. "I suppose she can have Cassidy's portion tonight, now that she's staying with her friend Heather for the evening."_

_"See? You can stay, can't you?" There were a million reasons why she couldn't._

_Wordlessly, Miranda slipped past her, but Andy didn't miss the quiet look given to her over Caroline's head._

_A smile forced itself onto Andy's face, and she gently squeezed Caroline's fingers. "Tonight, I can stay."_

_The grin that lit up the girl's features was unbearably sweet. Unwillingly, Andy's eyes once again rose to meet Miranda's._

_Then she yanked, the stare was broken and Andy was dragged upstairs._

_\--_

"Can I ask why you're barefoot?" 

To anyone else, the question might have come out of left field, particularly because she and Max were at the moment flopped over the bed, huffing and puffing after another failed attempt to get the plastic ties off of their hands and feet. 

But it really bothered her; the fact that Maxwell Smart was currently in possession of one shiny black shoe, while on the left foot, his feet remained curiously bare. 

Psychology warned Andy that it was her way of coping, focusing on the small and inconsequential in order to not completely freak out about the fact that at the moment she was in the clutches of a mad man.

She went with it. It was much better than a panic attack, and at the very least, concentrating on a missing shoe would be exactly the type of detail that would keep her sane. 

Calm assertive energy, came the mantra, and she blew out an exhalation and tried to calm her breathing. 

Max wiggled his big toe. "Ah well, I would assume that Agent 23 would have recognized that I kept a special device on my shoe that acts as a communication device in my shoe for emergencies, and removed it from my person." 

Andy considered that. "A shoe phone?" 

"A shoe phone, yes." 

"Agents are very odd people." 

"Come again?" 

"Well, if you wanted to talk to someone, why would you put the communication device on your foot?" Blowing out fiercely in an attempt to dislodge a fallen bang that tickled her nose, she gave him an inquisitive stare. "Wouldn't that be a trifle inefficient?" 

Max stared at her. "It wasn't my idea. The shoe was old; it has special significance for me." 

"And wouldn't it smell? And it's dirty. Why would you want to hold that up to your face?" 

She stopped asking when she realized Max Smart was simply staring at her in a way that, on any one else, could very easily be mistaken for irritation. "Andy Sachs, I take it the drugs starting to wear off." 

Good observation. The nausea had faded in favor of the quieter, more consuming fear, and now that she did not have that to focus on, she became aware of the abuse her body had taken on this little adventure. The muscles in her neck cramped, plastic ties dug into her wrists, cutting maliciously into her skin when she tried to shimmy them over her palms, and her legs tingled from lack of circulation. 

She almost wished for the fog of not knowing. At least in her drugged state she hadn't been aware of what it was that was happening to her. Of how dim the situation really was. 

Lying side by side with an agent who wore a furrowed brow on her kind expression, Andy could not help being overwhelmed with memories and feelings. 

"He's going to kill us, isn't he?" 

The quiet question was greeted with another moment of silence. Turning her head, she studied the face of the man beside her, watched how his mouth barely frowned, and his eyes averted hers. Looking for anything to say but the truth. When he opened his mouth, she gently shook her head. "Don't lie." 

The mouth closed again. Eyes tore from hers to once again stare at the ceiling. "I suspect he will." 

For no other reason that she was suddenly a twin.

Like Cassidy and Caroline. 

A picture perfect memory of the two little girls who dragged her deeper into Miranda's life than she had ever anticipated caused a sharp pain in her chest so massive she found herself breathless. 

"Miss Sachs." He was concerned. Unable to wipe at the tears suddenly stinging in her eyes, Andy just smiled grimly. 

"Do you have any kids?" 

"No," he answered after a moment. "But I would like to." 

"Does your girlfriend want kids?" 

Another hesitation. Touchy subject, then. "Eventually. At the moment she'd like to concentrate on her career." 

"I guess in your field it would be hard to do both," she admitted, suddenly caught in a visual of Miranda Priestly with a gun, slinking around corners. The thought brought a bittersweet smile to her lips. "Miranda has twins." 

"Twins are nice."

"They're holy terrors." As she turned her head to meet his gaze, she smiled. "One just came out and has this little butch girlfriend and the other one is not taking that well at all. She acts like she hates the fact that she's gay, but really… she just misses her sister, thought they'd be joined at the hip forever. They've got me on their speed dial, you know? Call me all the time. Cassidy called me this morning - just to tell me that Heather was furious because she was being dragged to her Dad's house. Even if they don't know about Miranda and me… they still call me. They think I'm their friend." 

Max eyed her. "You love them." 

The tears slipped down silently. With a harsh swallow, she nodded. "I really do, Max. I love them. I love Miranda. God." She closed her eyes, battled the lump in her throat. "I never even let myself admit it, but I wanted… I wanted to be with them, you know? Like with Miranda and with them." 

"Miss Sachs." The bed bobbed, and Max huffed, shuffling until he had enough room to gently and awkwardly pat at her side. "I promise you, we will get out of this. You'll see them again." 

He sounded so convinced. It was almost easy to believe. 

To smile wasn't nearly as painful as it could be. "So what do you want me to do?" 

Before he could answer, before he could even open his mouth, a deafening crash sounded. Andy jerked, and the cramp in her neck became a spasm. 

"YOU LOVE HER?!" 

The surprise at the familiar screeching voice was enough to distract her from the pain, force her to lift her head up and discover that it was indeed Emily that had burst into the room, face even more red than usual, nearly bleeding into her hair. 

"Emily?" Overtaken, Andy blinked back her tears. "What are you doing-" 

Fingers became claws that grabbed hold of her arms and with a wince-inducing strength Andy didn't even know the skinny girl had, she was yanked to a sitting position, inches away from a furious face. 

"Em?" she managed, before the fingers dug in deeper. "Ow- Max?" 

"You. And MIRANDA." Oh no. This was bad. The former first-assistant's eyes were wide and round; every syllable coming out of the firm mouth was clipped and laced with spit. This was very bad. "It was on the news, but I didn't believe it-" 

"EMILY!" Andy's eyes immediately averted from Emily's face at the appearance of Mr. Dwayne Johnson, who skidded into the room with a pistol pointed at them both. "Stop." 

But Emily only held tighter. "I didn't believe it!" Emily said again, never missing a beat. "I thought, 'this must be some sort of sick joke! They invented this to escape! It must be a clever ruse and Miranda will deny it all when she rescues me but… but… but you LOVE HER?!" 

"Oh boy," she heard Max say.

Throat dry, head ringing, Andy found herself at a loss. Emily's hold was bruisingly painful, but Andy dared not look away from Emily's face. 

"Emily, I'm not kidding. You do not get to kill my hostage." 

"SHUT IT, YOU IMPOTENT PRICK!" Emily hollered, and brought her so close that Andy could count every single freckle on the emotional face. "Say it. Say it again." 

Swallowing an uncomfortable lump down her throat, Andy did her best to sound calm and careful. "Emily, you're hurting me." 

"Agent 23, would you please-" 

"Shut it, Max. Let the lady express her anger." 

The way he said it, almost… admiringly, cause a shiver of revulsion to crawl up Andy's back. "Oh this is turning you on, isn't it?" 

"Chick fight. Totally." 

"Andy Sachs, you will SAY IT TO MY FACE." Emily's fingers dug deeper, fingernails breaking skin. 

"Emily, I have no idea what you're talking about." 

"Oh no? There's CAMERAS in here, you fool! You didn't think I could hear you?!" 

Oh. Crap. "Emily, it's been a very traumatic day and I think you might be overreacting a little bit. If you could just calm down-" 

"No. I want you to say it. Just SAY it." Every sentence was emphasized with a shake of Andy's arms. 

"Say what exactly?!" 

"God-dammit, Andy!" 

"Miss Emily! If you do not release Miss Sachs I will be forced to…" Max began to shuffle, but unfortunately, with his hands tied behind his back and his legs bound together, he just looked like an unattractive mermaid. 

"What will you do, Max-y, bite her?" 

"Agent 23, if you allow Miss Emily to kill Miss Sachs-"

"She'd be doing me a favor. She's not the one I want and you know it." 

Okay, this was bad. This was really really bad. Breathing in audibly through her nose, Andy focused on Emily's confused, furious face. The wide, tear-filled eyes, the wild expression of anger… 

This couldn't be happening. 

"Just say it," Emily whispered. "Be honest for just once, Andy bloody Sachs, and let me hear the truth." 

The truth. Before today she had never said the truth. Not out loud. Not to anyone. 

And here they were. 

Her heartbeat slowed, her pants became quieter, and even the numbing sensation of Emily's fingers digging tracks in her biceps. 

"Emily-"

She hissed when the fingers clenched again in warning. 

"You owe me that much." 

Her lips were dry, close to chapping. Andy moistened them. "Okay, Emily. Okay. Yes. You heard me say it. I love Miranda." Emily's face did not move. 

"Does she love you?" 

"I don't know," she remarked honestly. "But I'm pretty sure she does." 

The stony expression on Emily's face finally broke, into the look of a scared girl - young, love sick, insecure. 

Had this been any other situation, Andy would have felt sorry for her. But not here. Not now. Not about this. "You couldn't know that." 

"I've been sleeping with her for months, Emily. I do know that-" 

"Stop it-" 

"Did you really think you had a chance, Emily?" she asked. The tension that flooded her insides, squeezed around her ribs and made her breathless jolted her. The possession was unexpected. The need to stake her claim almost primal. She had kept silent for months, and where had it gotten her? "She's never looked at you twice-" 

"Stop it-" 

"Did you think by groveling you were going to get her attention?" 

"STOP IT." 

"She loves me, Emily." 

And that did it. The squeal erupted from the back of Emily's throat like a furious panther, and then the girl was on top of her. Bound and tied, Andy could only thrust her fisted hands up between them, shoving knees into Emily's stomach and lunging for the strands of hair that floated above her.

"Hey now!" 

Fists pounded on her face, on her body. Male voices shouted deafening orders, and then suddenly, as hands closed around her throat, the weight on top of her lifted. 

Gasping for breath, Andy angled her neck to see Dwayne Johnson with his large hands wrapped around Emily's middle, dragging the thrashing hellion back away from the bed. 

"Excuse us," he muttered, in between Emily's screeching. "We have a matter we need to settle." 

The door slammed shut. 

Heaving deep breaths in and out, Andy closed her eyes and flopped back on the bed. Her heart pounded, the adrenaline was nearly overwhelming. 

"Miss Sachs? Are you okay?" 

Eyes closed, she smiled grimly. "She's been waiting years to do that." 

"She has a lot of internalized rage." 

"Definitely." 

"I have to admit, she scared me more than Agent 23." 

The breathless statement caused a sudden laugh to burst from her throat. The tears came with it, but the release was desperate and needed. 

"Oh, God," she whispered, and opened her eyes. "I'm so gonna have a black eye. I'm going to die and Emily is going to kill me." 

"I don't think so." Eyes opening, she turned her head. Max smiled, shuffling to a sitting position, letting his white teeth gleam at her. "In the scuffle I managed to get this." 

Between his molars gleamed a silver earring. 

Andy blinked. "Congratulations?" 

"Thank you," he said. "But there isn't much time. Give me your hands. We're going to cut the bindings." 

"With an earring," she said, drawing the conclusion. "That's… that's quite a leap of faith, Max." 

"Come on." 

She lifted up her hands, and watched as Max carefully futzed with the plastic, sawing at her bindings with Emily's jagged edged earring. 

Long minutes later, she heard a pop. Her wrists sprang free. 

Wow. Rubbing lightly at her wrists found herself too surprised to be relieved. "Lookit you, Secret Agent Man." 

She had never seen a man so handsome as the one before her when he smiled sincerely. "I told you you'd see them again." 

The burst of hope that filled her nearly brought her again to tears. Until she remembered something. 

"Did Emily say something about the news?" 

\--

"God-dammit!NO!" 

She fought harder than she had fought for anything in her life. The arms around her waist did not budge. 

"No, you stop it. You're acting like an immature little bitch-" 

"EXCUSEME?!" 

Dragging her down the hallway, the evil agent only hissed in annoyance when she batted at his arms. 

"LET ME GO!" 

"Do you want me to shoot you?!" 

She didn't bloody care. She didn't care at all. Years of sacrifice and servitude and for what? For the blasted blogs and every station on television declare to the world that Miranda Priestly was involved with a torrid affair with Andy Sachs. 

ANDY SACHS of all people! 

In an expression of rage, she brought a heel down hard on his foot.

"OW! Bitch!" 

And just like that, the arms jerked away. The only problem was that she wasn't expecting it just then. She fell like a rock, landing hard on her bum, and feeling the jolt of pain trickle all the way up her back and knock into her teeth, biting into her tongue. The burst of copper flooded her mouth. 

"OW!" 

Glaring up at the man staring down at her, she lifted her fingers to her lips and came away with blood. 

"Serves you right." Panting, he stepped around her, hands on his hips as he tried to catch his breath. "What the hell is the matter with you, anyway?" 

Sprawled on the floor, Emily stayed miserably silent, mind whirling with thoughts, none of them good. The fight had bled out of her, and now she simply felt what she always felt - tired and weak. 

Bringing her knees together, she hugged them to her chest, eyes filling with tears as she shook her head. "I don't know. I don't know." 

"Well, I do. You're a crazy dyke who has a hell of a left hook." 

"I'm not though." Sniffling, Emily glanced up, wiping at her red nose. 

He laughed disbelievingly. "Oh. Right." 

"No, really." Chewing gently on her lower lip, Emily grimaced at the blood, speaking carefully with her swelling tongue. "I don't like women. Miranda Priestly is more than that. She's not an ordinary woman." 

"Yes she is." The tone was hard. Black shoes creaked on expensive wood flooring as the man who kept her hostage knelt down before her, and looked her in the eyes. "She's just a woman. An old woman at that, and not worth your time. Now get up, clean yourself off, and finish my bills." 

Grabbing hold of her hand in a strong grip, he yanked her up, with no regard for her well being. Nothing but casual indifference. And this was the man who would kill them all. A sociopatch hellbent on revenge. With no regard for anything else. 

GOD, he'd be good at it. 

"What are you looking at?" he asked suspiciously. 

Impulse overrode any sense of self-preservation, and she lunged. Attacked his mouth with hers. Grabbed hold of his shoulders and used them to crawl up his body with her legs, until her thighs pressed on his hips and her breasts flushed tight against his chest. 

"MMMPF?!" He jerked his head away, hands clutching tight at hers. "What are you doing?!" 

"Shut up," she growled, and with both hands planted on his cheeks, leaned in again, sliding her tongue into his mouth for a sloppy, fevered kiss. 

"HEY!" he snapped, feet skidding until they landed with a harsh crash against his front door. Emily immediately lowered her head, determined and horribly turned on, pressing full lips against his scruffy jaw and his temple, his cheeks, his ear. "Okay, I've heard about Stockholm Syndrome, but don't you think this is a little ridiculous-HEY?!" The grind against his hardening erection did not go unnoticed then. 

And Emily would not take no for an answer. Not right now. Right now it was too important to feel wanted. To feel invaded. To feel dominated. To think of anything else but the very idea of Miranda Priestly in love with Andrea Sachs. 

"Shut up," she ordered, when he began another round of protesting. Her legs tightened hard around his waist, trapping him. "I'm completely aware that you're evil, blah blah. You're going to kill us all, fine. Enjoy your pathetic little quest for revenge against the girl that dumped you for a middle-aged boyscout, but you WILL let me have this, and you WILL be good at this. You want me to do your receipts? You will FUCK me sore. Do you understand?" 

His eyes had glazed over, his jaw was slack, but at the very least, he nodded. "Okay." 

She lunged, and this time, he kissed her back, tongue tangling with hers as he began to roughly jerk up her dress, nearly dropping her in the process. 

"Yes," she breathed, panting hard. "YES. Now." 

And it would have happened. Right there. They would have had tawdry, torrid, passionate hate-sex against the hallway had the front door not opened right at that moment. 

They froze, he with his hand on her breast and she with her hand in his pants, brain gone too far south to really process who was standing in the doorway until he squeaked in a very feminine voice, "Irene?!" 

Two figures stood stiffly in the doorway, taking in the scene. An older woman, blonde and immaculately tailored. Beside her was a shorter, very well dressed little boy. Both wore identical unreadable expressions. "I see you didn't get my text," said the woman stiffly. 

Emily had the breath sucked out of her when Dwayne shoved her hard enough to crash into the other wall. 

"What are you doing here?!" he hissed, and Emily could only stare, too stunned to even speak. 

"Visitation. Remember?" 

"Irene? Not a good time." 

"I don't care, you schmuck. You're spending time with your child." Irene merely glared, and then Emily gulped when twin-sets of murderous stares were directed her way. "Who's this?" 

When Dwayne only seemed to stare at her blankly, Emily forced herself to straighten her dress and smile as pleasantly as she could, under the circumstances. "Hello there. My name is Emily." The beautifully dressed little boy scowled. "What a charming child. What's his name?" 

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. Irene stiffened, Dwayne sighed, and the little boy rolled his eyes and nearly spat, "I hate you so much, Dad." The voice was surprisingly effeminate. "Evil Slut-Mother." 

Irene's cool eyes grew colder. "What charming manners. Heather, I'd like you to meet Emily."


	8. Emily the Strange

"Really, Dwayne. I realize that you are some sort of extreme vigilante with an appetite for vengeance, but would it kill you to use the bedroom when you decide to screw some skinny freckle-faced twig? You've permanently scarred our child." 

Dwayne Johnson considered himself a sociopath, but he understood that in some respects, there was something that ticked inside of him that gave him the phantom urge to feel. 

He wouldn't necessarily call that feeling love, but it did enact some burden of sentimentality. It just wasn't much compared to most people. And besides, other things took priority, and in most instances relationships were purely convenient: as covers, as alibis, as drunken mistakes. 

Irene had been all three. The daughter of a jailed Russian mobster, a little past her prime and smart enough not to ask questions, she presented an opportunity for the cover of a devoted family man at a time when it was very important to appear to be just that. 

He hadn't loved her, but that wasn't what she wanted anyhow. Irene wanted money. She wanted security. She wanted a kid. 

Love had never been part of the package, and since she pretty much let him do whatever he wanted, he never saw a reason to divorce her. Not that he could. The aforementioned father of the bride had made it explicitly clear that he had nothing to lose if any harm came to Irene or his granddaughter. 

Not that Dwayne couldn't have figured out a way to kill her if he really wanted to, but as far as inconveniences were concerned, Irene was just a bug who got a paycheck. 

And she seemed to be the only one who could control Heather, which was extremely important.

Heather scared the shit out of him. 

And that was NOT what he needed right now. 

"You can not leave her here with me." The statement was meant to come out as an order, but the squeak at the end diminished the punch. Not that it mattered. Irene never paid attention to him anyway. 

His wife simply met his gaze calmly and said quite primly, "Oh, yes I can. You're the girl's father." 

"Only every other weekend and for four hours!" 

Irene exhaled and shook her head, flipping open her cell phone and eying it idly. "I think it's time that changed. She's growing up, Dwayne. It's time you noticed." 

In the foyer, the apple of his eye sat slumped in a chair, earphones dug into her ear. Heather was at least an inch taller than he remembered, and small little breasts poked out from the t-shirt emblazoned with skulls that covered her torso. She stared at Emily, hostile glare causing the usually pretty features to look downright demonic. 

He found himself suppressing a shiver. 

"Oh, when are you going to stop being so afraid of her?" Irene, having the audacity to look BORED over this, shook her head and snapped her phone closed. "She's not an alien, she's a kid." 

"Kids are scary," he snapped. "Especially one that's mine." 

"For god's sake, why?" 

"Have you BEEN inside of my head?!" he spat. He immediately regretted the rise in tone when Heather glanced up, catching his eyes with little miniature orbs that gleamed with just as much capacity for evil. In reflex he slammed the door closed, blocking her from sight. "To know there's a kid out there with that mentality-"

"She's not an asshole like you are, sweetie." 

With an inhalation meant to gather courage, Dwayne pulled on the doorknob and narrowed his usually observant gaze, peeking in his little girl's direction. Heather's cat eyes once again met his. When he offered her a tentative wave, he got a middle finger shoved in his direction. Blanching, he shoved the door closed again. 

\--  
 _The leg sweep had taken her by surprise. It caught her right against her heel, forcing a shift in weight and no support when her back slammed hard against the blow, knocking the breath out of her._

_Already heated, already emotional, it was jarring, throwing her out of the moment with the flash of pain blinded her._

_Miranda's eyes shot open, her mouth turned down viciously, but before she could allow a retort, any sort of reprimand for the unnecessary roughness, Andrea had already settled on top of her, not giving her any sort of leniency against the unyielding floor and the firm body above her. Not even a moment to gasp for air before soft lips attacked hers again, tongue darting between the parted mouth._

_The groan was ripped out of her throat before she could help it, and it was an annoyance. Her back would be sore. She would have a bruise on the back of her head, and Andrea nearly killed her-_

_She was nearly killing her now. Her lips moved against hers intensely, kisses wet and deep as she dug a knee in between her own and slid up, pressing against her and releasing another angry groan that caused the infuriating woman on top of her to chuckle, ripping the kisses away from her mouth and breathing hotly against her chin, her jaw._

_Fingers worked frantically, but efficiently, as Andrea lifted up between them and unbuttoned her vest, smoothing a heated palm against the blouse underneath before sneaking underneath the collar, revealing more skin._

_"Bitch," Miranda gasped against Andrea. "This is not what I came here for." But her torso arched, reveling in the feel of the other woman tonguing down her cleavage, reaching the rise of one breast._

_"No?" came the muffled moan. "This isn't what you came for?" The expensive shirt was shoved aside, and Andrea's mouth descended on the silken cup of her bra, drawing up her nipple underneath it._

_"Oh, God!" Miranda's head snapped back against the floor. Her hands raked down Andrea's shoulders. "No, I came here to talk-"_

_"Well, I don't want to talk," Andrea mumbled. Fingers shoved up her shirt, and the cup of the bra, and suddenly her breast was encased in moist heat, suckling her. The moan Andrea released at the action flooded her with wetness, and Miranda felt assaulted, overtaken, overpowered on every level._

_It was not something she ever was supposed to enjoy._

_Andrea released her nipple with a pop, and then lifted up, knee digging again against her pussy as she leaned over her, so close to her mouth their lips brushed as she whispered, "If I let you talk you'll talk us out of this."_

_Her mouth descended. The kiss was wanton, passionate._

_Released a long moment later, Miranda stared into the beautiful, young face staring down at her, watching her expression intensely, only inches away._

_And she was so young. So young to want her. So young to want this as fiercely as Andrea appeared to want it._

_"There is every reason why I should." Meant to be harsh. Meant to be finale. Not meant to sound so damn weak. So terrified. So out of control._

_It was not meant to make Andrea smile so beautifully, as if she had just won something. As if she had just won her._

_And what other way was there to look at it? One kiss planted on her unexpectedly and Miranda was here. Chasing the girl, under the guise of talking sense into a woman with a useless crush. Put a stop to it._

_And Andrea swept her off her feet. Literally._

_Another kiss descended, and Miranda returned it, thrust her tongue hard into her Andrea's mouth and felt the tangle of lust as her hips arched against the pressure of Andrea's knee._

_Andrea broke the kiss, lower lip catching between Miranda's lips before jerking free._

_"I'm not going to let you." Blood rushing in her ears, Miranda barely heard it, but it still burned her. "I'm not going to let you say no to me." Another deep kiss. Miranda was scalded. "Not when it's like this." Another one, deeper, lips plundering hers with abandon, before she was denied again. Andrea's head lifted and her eyes sparkled with madness. "Not when you want it as bad as I do. I'm not going to let you say no to me."_

_"Shut up." The order was said with a hoarse, choked voice. But it was sincere. Entirely sincere as Miranda grabbed hold of that elusive mouth and jerked it down against her once more, clawing into the brunette mane that cascaded around them like a floral-scented tent, and holding her still._

\--

Burying herself deep within the headquarters of CONTROL did not afford Miranda any sort of privacy at all. Though the paparazzi were long gone, every head turned at the flash of her silver hair. She heard the whispers, but she was used to that. And Agent 99 stopped for no one. For that she was grateful. 

Now dressed in all black, save for the pearl leather jacket she wore over the tight ensemble, the Agent had begun to distinguish herself, in Miranda's eyes. 

"You have twins," she said suddenly, glancing back to catch her look. "That's how you were able to tell I wasn't Andrea." 

The smile she bore was not a happy one. "I am editor-in-chief of a fashion magazine," she replied. "Generalizations do not suit me. And Andrea is unique." 

Agent 99's heels clicked loudly on the linoleum, and Miranda found herself struggling to keep up. The killer agent turned sharply on a corner, and with a frown on the gorgeous face that looked so much like Andrea's, jerked her head, indicating that Miranda follow her up the stairs. 

"He'll say no," she warned. 

Miranda doubted that very much. Very few people said no to her. On any matter. 

When they reached the office, 99 briefly knocked and immediately opened the door, pushing through and allowing her to follow. 

The Chief of CONTROL was seated cross-legged on the floor, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, back of his palms on his knees, humming loudly. 

"CHIEF." 

The loud interruption caused the man to jump, nearly keeling over in his surprise, and Miranda discovered the headache that would not fade pound once again at her temples. 

"Hello." Shoving the glasses up to his eyes, he scrambled to his feet. "There you are. What took you so long?" 

"We had to make a stop," 99 snapped. "Chief, I'd like you to meet Miranda Priestly." 

Miranda shot her a cool glare. There was no time for pleasantries. With a frustrated smile, she reached for the extended arm and offered a light shake. 

"A pleasure, Ms. Priestly. My wife and children adore you." 

"You'll forgive me if I say that, at the moment, that doesn't matter to me in the least." The stern statement caused the tense smile to falter, and Miranda was glad to see it. "We are wasting time." 

"Chief, you need to let Miranda Priestly know that this is a dangerous operation and not a field trip, therefore she will NOT be allowed to join me. Does Larabee have the plans of the building?" 

The man only blinked. "Excuse me? She's what?" 

99 shot her another passive-aggressive glare. "She insists on coming. I've told her no but she insisted on coming to see you." 

"Of course I do. It's the fault of this organization that Andrea's in any danger to begin with," Miranda answered quietly. 

"I was really hoping you wouldn't see it that way." 

"Oh, that's a great start," muttered 99, and the statement was so much like Andrea Miranda felt a deep throb suddenly flare in her chest. The agent didn’t see it. She was already backpeddling toward the door. "I'm going to see Bruce and Lloyd. And then I'm going to get Max and Andy Sachs. Alone." 

Agent 99 stepped out, and left her with her boss. 

"Wow, you really ticked her off." Her eyes slid away from the door and locked with his. The face grew noticeably whiter. "Ms. Priestly, I understand that you're angry. But this is a matter of national security. It's VERY dangerous, and the fact of the matter is-" 

"Stop." The simple word, said so quietly, did its work. He shut his mouth. 

The first time Miranda and Andrea had made love had been on the floor of Andrea's apartment, two days after Andrea had shocked the hell out of her by planting a kiss on her in Miranda's town car. 

The kiss had not been chaste. Andrea had taken her time. Leaned into her as Miranda prepared to give her a cold but obligated press of cheek against cheek as Andrea thanked her for the ride home, smoothed a palm against her chin and opened her mouth against hers. 

Miranda rarely allowed herself the luxury of being shocked. She anticipated everything. She did not anticipate this, and as a result, her response was instinctive. Her mouth had parted, her head had tilted. Her eyes had darted closed and she did everything she shouldn't have done. When the kiss ended one long moment later, her eyes opened, and the surprise set in. 

But it had never occurred to Miranda to say no to Andrea. And when it was over, Andrea had not allowed it. She had left before the words could even begin. The next day, Miranda tried again, and was attacked and made love to with such fervor she had been immediately addicted, despite every doubt she had. 

"Allow me to explain something," she began, quiet. Always quiet. "Because of you. Because of this organization, my lover has been kidnapped. Her life is threatened. My reputation has been mired, and it will be incredibly inconvenient to spin this in anyway that is remotely positive because not only is Andrea's image all over the front page, but she still remains the image of your Agent 99. Now, I am not a stupid women, nor am I being overtly unrealistic. You have inconvenienced me, my family, and my lover greatly. The only reason I have not put wheels in motion to destroy your façade of a government organization is because your Agent 99 has saved my life. Whether or not YOU are spared, is determined by the measures you take to ensure Andrea remains unharmed. Therefore I think it is in your best interest that you allow me to monitor Agent 99 on her mission." 

He opened his mouth weakly. 

"I will not allow you to say no to me," she finished. "That's all." 

\-- 

Heather Johnson had horrible posture. She had amazing clothes, but she had horrible posture. 

Chestnut hair would have been brown and glossy, had it not been shorn to resemble some emo-boyband. Bangs fell over her eyes, and the denim jeans and obscenely expensive sneakers set off a perfectly androgynous look that would have landed the child in a Calvin Klein ad campaign. 

Had it not been for her terrific scowl. 

Seated carefully on the foot of the stairs, wincing against her swelling tongue, and shifting uncomfortably thanks to still being a little wet from nearly having been fucked out of her skull, Emily discovered herself lingering, thanks to Dwayne's explicit order that she keep an eye on the child. 

The front door was meters away, and should Emily have chosen, she could have easily walked through it and out to freedom. The thought had occurred to her. Except of course between she and the door was the devil's spawn, who burst ear-bleeding music out of her headphones and fiddled with her cellphone, obviously bored. 

"Who the hell are you? My babysitter?" 

Emily glanced up, redhair bobbing as she discovered the little minion staring straight at her, carefully working to refold the cuff on her jeans before resettling herself in her chair. 

"Hardly." Glancing uneasily at the closed door where Dwayne Johnson and his… ladyfriend had disappeared to, Emily found herself stunned into politeness. "No, I'm… simply a host-I'm a guest," she amended quickly, not sure exactly why she was lying. "I'm doing his expense reports." 

"You were doing a lot more than that." The frank observation made her shudder, and Emily nervously began to scrape at her neck. "What, he's paying you for that?" 

She flushed, felt the heat invade her cheeks. "That's not any of your business, now is it?" 

"It is if you're dating my dad." 

"I'm not dating your father." 

"You were going to bang him up against that door." 

The fact that a thirteen year old daughter of a cold blooded killer had witnessed that and repeated it so readily was extremely unnerving. "Well that's just sex." 

Heather's brown furrowed. "So you don't actually LIKE him." 

Emily offered a disgusted snort, wincing when her swollen tongue bled a little and she caught a bit of copper-tasting blood going down her throat. "The man is a brute." 

Heather regarded her. "I don't like him either," she announced. "My dad's an asshole." 

"I find that entirely plausible." 

"And you're British," said little Miss Obnoxious, turning away in disgust. 

"Pardon me?" 

"I'm sorry. I can't understand you on account of your big freakin' accent." Heather was now solely focused on her phone, picking through the digits with the rapid speed that Emily often envied of the younger set. "MOM!" she roared suddenly, startling Emily so completely she nearly fell off her perch. "I'M BORED!" 

The wooden door peeked open. "Then find something to amuse yourself, darling. But stay away from Daddy's computers. And remember the place might be boobytrapped. You know how your father is for hidden traps." 

Heather rolled her eyes and slumped back again. "This is so lame," she said, and once again Emily found herself the object of the unnerving attention. "What is it?" 

"You've got red hair like my girlfriend," Heather announced. 

Well then. Emily had never been one to assume, but apparently the little girl was not at all a surprise in THAT respect. At least her eyes were quite pretty. 

"Thank you," she managed uncertainly. 

"It's not a compliment," Heather said. "She's just turned twelve, but she's prettier than you." She began to punch at her keyboard, before squinting. "What's your name?" 

Emily blinked. "Emily." 

"Hold on." Heather lifted up her phone and pointed it in her direction. Emily heard a distinct 'click'. "I'm gonna show her." 

Somehow getting her picture taken and texted to whomever she was texting was possibly not something that Dwayne Johnson would have wanted. 

At this point, downgraded from hostage to accountant to babysitter, Emily did not quite care. "Tell her I’ve been taken hostage, while you're at it," she added drolly, flicking an uncaring finger in Heather's direction. 

Heather's lightning fast digits paused, before she saw a shrug and a nod from the shaggy head, and the girl kept typing. "Don't know why anyone would take YOU hostage," Heather said obnoxiously. "You look annoying." 

\--

"She's a bitch." 

"Well, yes. What do you expect? Her mother is a bitch and her father is a terrorist." 

"I'm not a terrorist. And what the hell is she wearing? I thought you were going to get her to start dressing more… like a girl!" 

"Oh, I tried." Irene pushed up to her feet, slinging her bag over her shoulder and dusting at her pants. "When I did she looked horrendous. And she was miserable to boot. The girl knows what she likes, Dwayne, and she likes to be comfortable and she likes girls. We might as well accept it." 

"The hell we will! She's thirteen! She doesn't know what she wants yet!" 

"Oh yes she does. It's a beautiful little girl that she absolutely adores and the only thing that she is remotely excited about, other that her videogames and her computers." A soft exhalation floated across his chin as Irene came to stand beside him, clucking at him like he was an idiot. "And don't tell me at thirteen you weren't staining your bedsheets with stolen Playboys as inspiration." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

Her eyes floated down to the still tented crotch of his pants. Dwayne arched a brow when Irene betrayed the slightest interest. "Don’t flatter yourself," Irene said immediately. "I have better things to do than to stick myself with a walking STD. Now listen to me. I will be leaving her with you for twenty-four hours-"

Again it came. The panic. "No, you will not." 

"When I pick her up, I expect not one bruise, not one scratch. And if you take her out of the country again with some phony passport I swear to God, Dwayne, I will choke you with my bare hands." 

"Listen to me!" Panic rose like bile in his throat, as his hands lurched out and he grabbed hold of Irene by the shoulders, yanking her close. "I have a plan, you see. A plan that is coming close to fruition. I've worked on it for months."

The smack that slapped across his cheek stung so badly, it brought tears to his eyes. "No." His ex-wife took one step forward, seriously invading his personal space. "You listen to me. It's bad enough that you had to go and try to blow up Los Angeles and got yourself BLOWN up instead. You shattered the girl's trust by dying and then showing up with a brand new FACE-" 

"Not my fault-" 

"It's bad enough that you never see her, never spend time with her, don't know a thing about her-" 

"I have to work!" he snapped, finger shoving into her face. "Someone has to keep her in man's clothes!" 

"But the girl will NOT grow up hating her father." Irene stepped out of his hold, yanking her designer jacket back into place. "I mean, for God's sake, look at her, Dwayne! She's practically a boy! She needs her father's influence! She's going through puberty for God's-sake! She's dating a twelve year old!" 

The very idea caused an unconscious gulp. "Does she know about condoms?!" 

"The girl is THIRTEEN and she's a LESBIAN, you moron. She doesn't need CONDOMS, she needs a frank discussion about hormones and waiting and respecting the fact that her little girlfriend is a CHILD." 

This was the beginning of a conversation he was never ready to have. He hated being a father. He liked being a bad ass. He liked being Agent 23, the Rogue Bad Ass Agent. 

Being a parent SUCKED. 

Eyes scrunching shut, Dwayne sucked in his breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, counting to three. "I have two hostages and I've got an agent coming into the house that I'm setting a trap for. I need every bit of my concentration-" 

"Well then this is perfect." 

His eyes shot open. "How?!" 

"Well, she's very good at computers. Hell, she got suspended last week for hacking into the White House! It's about time she start learning the family business, anyhow." 

He sighed. "Are you serious?" 

"It would give you a reason to bond."

"Are you listening to yourself? I've got hostages!" 

"She's seen 'Hostel' three times." 

"You're insane!" 

"Obviously, this is a case of the pot calling the kettle black. And you're being a coward. Spend time with your daughter. Get to know her. For God's sake, Dwayne, you're the only father she has. I don't want her to grow up hating you. She might turn you in out of spite and then where will that put us?" 

Irene shook her head at the inconvenience of even contemplating such a thought. After a moment, she leaned forward and placed a prim peck on his cheek. "Now, I don't mind if she sees a bit of blood, but do NOT leave her alone with that strange Emily girl. She doesn't look all there. What happened to that 23 girl you kept threatening to marry?" 

Dwayne found himself wishing very hard for the strength to lift up his pistol and splatter Irene's brains all over the living room. 

\--

"Where are the kids?" 

It was the first question that popped out of 99's mouth the minute she stepped into the briefing room and discovered only Bruce and Lloyd, resident geeks, futzing with something that looked like a cross between a gun and a lasso. 

The fact that she was actually THINKING of children at a time like this was acutely disturbing, because 99 needed to be focused on Max. Getting to Max. Getting him out alive. And NOT the constant discussion of children that they were always having. Nor her sudden need to watch out for the redheaded brats that glared at her for having the audacity to have their mother's girlfriend's face. 

"They got bored and then one of them wanted ice cream, so we let them play with Hymie," said Lloyd happily, before turning and presenting her with a stick of mascara. "Telescope. With heat sensor. Go get Max and bring him home." 

99 didn't take it. "You left two preteens alone in a command center in control of a five hundred pound automated robot?!" 

Bruce uncapped the mascara and peered into it; looking so clueless she wanted to slap him. "What? They thought he was cool!" 

A shrill panicked scream erupted, causing Bruce to drop his laser, and Lloyd to nearly poke himself in the eye with his tube of mascara. 

The door slammed open, and there was Larabee, face botched with red patches, dangling from the collar with a smiling HYMIE behind him. "99?" he asked, boots dangling above the ground. "May I have a word?" 

99 shut her eyes, willing herself to be patient. "Cassidy. Caroline." 

Two redheads obediently peeked out from behind the massive robot. "Would you please release Agent Larabee?" 

"No," said Cassidy. "He called Mom a carpet muncher." 

In response, Caroline jerked on HYMIE's control, causing the obedient man-looking Robot to lift up his hand and give the Texan Agent a wedgie. 

"99!?" Larabee roared, and 99 pressed her lips together to force herself not to see the humor in this, even when Bruce and Lloyd gave each other a very obvious high five. 

"Larabee? Would you please apologize to the girls for being a complete ASS?" 

"The hell I will! They're little devils!" 

This time, when Caroline jerked the controls, the underwear actually threatened to go over his head. Larabee squealed again, looking like a stuck pig. "I'm sorry!" he wheezed. "I'm sorry! I'M SORRY!" 

"What's a carpet muncher?" asked Caroline. 

Oh, Lord. "I think you should ask your mother that question." 

"I know what it is!" Cassidy said helpfully. "I read it about it with Heather. It's when a lesbian-"

"OKAY!" 99 interrupted, when Bruce and Lloyd only stood blinking. "One, you should NOT be reading books like that, you've just turned twelve." 

Cassidy shrugged. 

"Two, girls? As much of a JERK Larabee is, and even if he CLEARLY deserves it, Hymie is government property and should not be used to bully idiot agents." 

"I'm fine with it!" Bruce said merrily. 

"NOT HELPING," she growled, and the nerd immediately shut up. "That's enough. Let him go." 

The two twins stared at each other, and then Caroline carefully manipulated the controls. 

Hymie began to swing Larabee back and forth by his underwear. With a loud rip, the fabric gave way and the chubby agent found himself flung into the nearest wall. 

"Damn kids," he breathed. Both nerds and children erupted into cheers. 

"I like this thing!" Caroline said, but obediently handed over the remote control when 99 held out her hand. "We should take it with us when we go save Andy." 

" _We_ are not going," she said explicitly, turning away and reaching down to an unconscious Larabee to pull a wrinkled roll of blueprints from his pants pocket. "I'm going. You're going to stay right here under witness protection." Another beep, and Cassidy dug immediately into her pants. "Honey, can you turn off your phone?" 

"You're not my mother," Cassidy answered cheerfully, and then suddenly frowned. "I was kinda looking forward to using that on Andy." The somberness in the teenager made her glance up, note the genuine fear now emanating in the little green eyes. "Go save her now." 

"Working on it," she said, as sincerely as she could. She spread the blueprints over the desk, reaching for a gun set aside for her and digging it into the holster at her belt. "Bruce, Lloyd, I do want Hymie to come with me. I need the distraction. 23 will be expecting me. He won't be expecting him." 

"You break it, you bought it." 

"That wasn't an issue ten minutes ago when you handed it to a pair of twelve-year old girls," she snapped, and rolled her eyes, trying hard to keep her temper in check. "Now, when Miranda gets back-" 

"Oh, shit!" Cassidy exclaimed, making them all jump. 

"Cassidy." Miranda Priestly entered the room, trailed by an unusually cowering Chief. "You will watch your language." 

"Mom, look-" 

99 sucked in a pained breath. "Let me guess. No I don't have to. She's coming." 

"She won't interfere," Chief said immediately. "You have my word." 

"Miranda, NO," she snapped, eyes locking with the older woman. "I have plenty to worry about without having to save you too." 

Cassidy now tugged at her jacket. "Hey. Lady who looks like Andy." 

"Her name is 99," Caroline said helpfully. "She's fatter than Andy." 

"Oh, snap!" 

"Shut up, Bruce!" 99 barked, and glared at the kid. "I'm not fatter-this is muscle!" 

"Whatever. Keep telling yourself that." 

"Seriously, 99," pestered Cassidy, poking at her in the ribs. 

"Miranda, no. I have three hostages to free, and the place is a deathtrap. We don't know what is going on in there. We don't know whose even alive-" 

"What on earth does that have to do with anything-" 

"I need to concentrate!" 

"MOM!" 

"Cassidy, what is it?" Miranda finally asked. 

Cassidy held up her phone, eyes enormously round. "Lookit. Heather says she's a hostage at her dad's house." 

On her phone was a clear picture of a familiar redhead. 

"Oh, shit," 99 breathed.


	9. The Inside Man - er…Tomboy

_If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn't. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn't be. And what it wouldn't be, it would. You see?_ \- Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll 

\--

 

"Ready? HEAVE!" 

The pounding headache was getting in the way, and Maxwell Smart did not have time to worry about it. 

Gritting his teeth, he bore through the pain, shoulder pressing hard against the bookshelf, polished shoes slipping on the wood as he attempted to move the massively heavy piece of furniture yet another inch. 

Beside him, heels long since discarded, Andy wheezed, sheens of moisture prickling on her forehead. She looked exhausted, and no better off than he was. 

But there was no time to waste. 

"HEAVE!" 

Andy heaved, until her legs gave out from under her, and suddenly she slid down the wood, splaying against it, energy spent. 

"Enough," she managed, wiping at her wild brunette locks, shoving the curls off her shoulder and shaking her head. "No more heaving." 

Forehead falling against the wood, Max shut his eyes. Filling his lungs with air, he pushed it back out again, willing his focus to return. 

Concussions were the most inconvenient thing when trying to escape from a kidnapping. 

Carefully, he noted they had only managed to move the heavy dresser only a third of the way toward the locked door, but it would have to do for now. 

Their rapidly dwindling strength would have to be conserved for other uses. 

"Question," Andy Sachs began, brown eyes unexpectedly bright as she craned her neck to glance up at him. "Why are we trying to lock ourselves in? Isn't the point to try and get out?" 

Andy Sachs was a reporter, and because of that, her nature was to ask a lot of questions. 

Max never realized how frustrating that could be. 

Usually 99 just liked to order him around. 

"The front door is an obvious choice, and the most deadly," he answered, and pushed away from the drawer, turning his attention to the wallpaper. "Our way out is a rabbit hole." 

Narrowing his eyes, he began to eye the wall, noting the seamless pattern of the wallpaper, looking for any sort of irregularity. 

"A rabbit hole?" 

"Did you ever read 'Alice In Wonderland' by Lewis Carroll?" he asked. 

"Of course," Andy Sachs snorted, and then hesitated. "Well, I saw the Disney cartoon," she amended. 

The grim smile on his face was enough to show his appreciation for her honesty. "The book is genius," he replied, and headed for the south wall. "Nothing is what it seems and everything is always opposite." He tossed her a nod. "Being a spy is very much the same thing." 

The comparison he thought was a clever one. 

"Huh." Andy scrambled to her feet, and because she seemed an absurdly quick study, began to mimic his movements, feeling tentatively along the walls. "I always thought that book was about getting high." 

The very idea caused a stiffening jolt up his spine, and a heated flush along his cheeks. "Of course not!" 

"Well don't get so defensive about it," Andy muttered, and frowned at the wall. "It's not like I'm suggesting Lewis Carroll was a junkie or anything. I mean he probably was. Most writers were at that time." 

"Pardon me?" 

"I'm just saying!" Before he could protest further on behalf of the reputation of his favorite beloved author, Andy abruptly added, "What are we looking for?"

Swallowing down his affronted sensibilities, he turned back to the chore at hand. "Irregularities. Anything that might be a trigger. A hinge." 

Andy paused, eyeing him sagely. "So we're looking for a trap door." 

"Precisely."

"Oh. Why didn't you just say that?" 

He had a concussion. She had been drugged. There was a reason they were snippy. 

He had to remember that and keep his patience. Biting down a grimace, Max began patiently, "Agent 23 would not have put us in a residential house like this had there not been a specific reason. With his training he must know there has to be more than one way out of anything." 

"So we're looking for a trap door to slip out of before he realizes we're free?" Andy stopped rubbing the wall and stepped back to study it. 

"Chances are he's already seen it coming. I'm hoping that your friend Emily's fit has distracted him enough to keep him away from the cameras. With any luck we can find the trigger, and be gone before he even notices-" A frightened yelp cut him off, and Max blinked, straightening up to discover Andy Sachs was no longer in the room. "Miss Sachs?" He shifted to the side, where he had last seen her. "Miss Sachs?" 

In front of him was a wall. There was no irregularity. Nothing out of the ordinary at all. It was simply… perfect. 

He blinked, and scooted forward. Caught his foot on a crack. The wood underneath him suddenly gave way, and his heart skidded up into his throat, nearly choking him as he tumbled through the floor opening that had opened up from under him. 

He landed with a jarring thump, a crumpled heap next to a coughing and dusty Andrea Sachs. 

Above him, the floor slit shut, enveloping them in a dusty tunnel with only dimming florescent bulbs buried in twenty foot segments in the walls around them for a light source. 

His tuxedo was beyond dusty, and still Max couldn't help a futile effort to brush himself off, ease carefully to his feet. "Are you okay?" 

"Is this a tunnel?" 

"I'm afraid this might be a booby trap." 

Still coughing, Andy blinked open one eye and narrowed it at him. "You and your stupid rabbit holes." 

\-- 

Normal parents didn't have to teach you about money laundering when you were six. 

And they didn't sit you down in front of an old Apple II computer when you were four, and force you to learn how to reprogram it. And hire a tutor when you were seven who turned out to be a hacker on parole who was 'convinced' to show you all his tricks 'just in case'. 

They sure as hell didn't have Dads who died on you and then showed up months later, and shoved you into a car and scare the shit out of you before they told you they had changed their entire fucking face. 

Normal people didn't write letters thanking their granddad for Christmas and birthday gifts and address them to a Russian prison, sneaking in hidden code with their mother's instructions. 

They didn't get taught how to use a gun on their thirteenth birthday. 

Even in her fucked up freaky rich 'Gossip Girl' world; Heather Johnson understood she was different. 

And she was very fucked up because of it. 

And irony of ironies, she couldn't even tell her therapist the truth to work out the fucked up ness. Rage issues, was the idiot's diagnosis, stemming with hormones, puberty and sexuality.

And now even her mother thought she was some kinda sex-freak jerking off in her room, like some … boy. 

Which wasn't to say Heather wasn't curious about sex. But Cassidy was fucking twelve. She hadn't even known what sex WAS a few months ago, and Heather wasn't a nimrod. 

Still, it had been kinda fun to mess with her mother at first. Stick print outs of porn underneath the bed and score a vibrator off one of the varsity players on the field hockey team, but… even that had bit her in the ass. 

Because now her mother was worried about her and Cassidy. 

And if there was anything in this world that was important to Heather Johnson, it was Cassidy Priestly. 

Only fucking reason she had agreed to this. Hadn't immediately climbed out the window the moment her mother told her where she was spending the weekend. 

The minute her mom told Miranda fucking Priestly that she was all about her daughter, it was over. 

Well, maybe not. 

Heather grinned despite herself. 

Now that Cassidy's mom had finally banged the hot journalist that shared their dog, and got outed doing it, she had more important things to worry about. 

And Heather knew enough to exploit an advantage. 

"Would you mind stopping that?" 

The scowl on the pale woman's face would have been scary, had Heather actually given a shit. While the woman her Dad was banging was actually pretty, the face she made and the way she sat on the stairs made Heather think of a troll under a bridge. 

A really skinny troll who needed a hamburger. Seriously.

The thought made her smile. Rolling her shoulders and popping her spine crinkle with a few satisfying pops, Heather slumped further into her chair and turned back to her Nintendo DS. 

"Excuse me." 

Oh, geez. Heather's eyes lifted, narrowed. "What?" 

Emily pointed an obscenely long fingernail at her foot. Heather looked down to discover her Conversed sneaker tapping rapidly against the wood. 

"That," snarled the woman. "Would you please stop that?" 

"No?" 

The widening eyes that narrowed into a sudden glower were semi frightening, and Heather actually hesitated, until the door to the living room opened and her mother clacked her way through the hallway. 

In a last ditch effort, Heather shot to her feet. "Mom, please don't leave me here." 

But even before she got the sentence out, she knew it was no use. Her mother had that expression on. The 'resolved' face. Her stomach dropped with disappointment, and Heather swallowed, suddenly furious and unable to do a damned thing about it. 

Lilac scented palms stretched over her face, and Heather grimaced when her mother once again began to fuss with her bangs.

"Honey, what did I tell you about covering your eyes? You've got beautiful eyes." 

"Leave it alone," she snapped, slapping her hands away and combing through the brown strands distractedly, arranging them frantically back into place. "Seriously, Mom - I'll call Cassidy - her driver can pick me up-" 

"Heather." The tone was stern, the glare was glittering, and like a damned Pavlovian response, Heather's trap slammed shut. "Now we discussed this in the car. You are staying with your father." 

The man in question stood right behind her mother, with his damned freaky face and his dark eyes. 

Heather shivered in revulsion. 

"He's not my Dad," she snapped, making sure to meet his eyes as she did so. "He's a fucking sperm donor." 

The palms against her face tightened from a light caress to a ruthless hold. Heather's breath caught, and her glance again shifted to her mother. Her mother became that person again. The ruthless mobster's moll. 

The lady who terrified her. 

"Behave," Irene said again, and Heather sucked in a muted, agonized breath. "You will spend this weekend with your father, and you will have a good time. He's going to teach you some things." 

Suspicion flooded her like a tidal wave. "What things?" 

But all she got was a peck and a dismissive, "Be a good little dyke. That's a cool word right?" and then her mother was leaving, heading off with the fucking clack clack of her heels and her bleached hair. 

The door creaked closed like bars on a prison, and then she was left with a Dad she didn't recognize and a red-headed popsicle stick. 

"So…" Her Dad, with his massively built shoulders, and psychopathic glint in his eyes, clapped his hands together and hopped like a moron. "How ya doin'… buddy?" 

She didn't even bother justifying the idiotic question with a response. The phone in her pocket was starting to buzz, and with a disgusted snort, she dug into her jeans. 

"I'm going to my room," she snapped, and pulled out the phone. The message from Cassidy: Call me when you're alone. Like now. 911.

911\. 

Heather's stomach clenched. Her focus stayed on the tiny monitor, the three numbers, and the significance behind it. 

"So… whattaya say we head over to the security room, hey champ?"

The distraction was most unwelcome. Irritation caused a physical shiver, as her eyes lifted up and she glared at her father. 

The Big Bad Assasin Man actually gulped.

What a tool. 

"Daddy can teach you how we tie up hostages!" he babbled, and then motioned wildly. "Have you met Emily! You wanna tie her up?" 

"Excuse me?!" Emily decided to screech, for some reason affronted that Heather's dad, the SOCIOPATH, was okay with that. 

"Can you guys like, do your S&M Freakazoid stuff when I'm not in the room? Cause it's gross." Her father glanced at her phone. Scowl deepening, she shoved it back into her pocket. "Dad, I'm hungry." 

The statement was met with blank silence, before he jerked to life, with a wide smile on a man whose face she didn't remember. Didn't recognize. 

Not even the look in his eyes. 

"Oh! Right. Yeah! Sure! Anything you want Kiddo! Wanna order a pizza?" 

Oh, fuck me, she thought. "Fuck no, the last time we ordered a pizza, it took forty minutes and you shot the driver." 

The smile dropped. "Honey, we've been over this. He personally promised me it would be thirty minutes or less. He lied. There are consequences when you lie to me."

"You killed the delivery driver because he was late with the food?" Heather glanced over, expecting to see her father's hostage-slash-fuck buddy horrified. Instead the woman processed the information and looked almost impressed. "I wish I could do that. It'd save me heaps of headaches." 

"Christ, she's as nuts as you are." The phone buzzed again, and Heather hitched in an anxious breath, knowing another 911 text message waited for her. 

"Sweetie, now that hurts Daddy's feelings-" 

"Just make me a sandwich or something!" she erupted, flustered as all hell. "God!" 

Her father immediately shot a look to Emily. Heather blinked, following his focus. 

At the sudden attention, Emily dragged the strand of red hair she was sucking on out of her mouth. "What?" 

"You heard her." 

"Excuse me?" Emily's posture stiffened. "So it's not enough I'm your hostage, your accountant, your secretary - I'm your cook now?!" 

"Do you want me to kill you?" 

"Oh fuck you both," Heather growled, done with it. "I'm going upstairs. Dad? Sandwich, and FEED her while you're at it. She looks like a poster child for bulimia." 

"Thank you!" 

The enthusiastic response made Heather blink. "Freak." Grabbing her backpack, she jogged up the stairs, flipping open her cellphone on the way. "SANDWICH!" 

\--

"The gun is completely unnecessary." 

The terminally grumpy mood that had plagued Emily this entire day had not dissolved, despite the brief moment of near-release she had almost experienced. 

In fact, this day was rapidly going from bad to worse. 

At the very least, the dynamics between a kidnapper and kidnappee should have been clear cut. Like her job. Emily understood her duties, and she fulfilled them. Very well, she knew. Emily didn't mind patting herself on the back. No one else would do her that favor, not in her chosen industry. 

She was a kidnap victim. She should have been up there with that agent and with Andy Sachs, tied up and moaning, and worried for her life.

She was not meant to be standing in a kitchen with a gun pointed to her head while she fumbled around a killer's refrigerator looking for ham, and so emotionally exhausted she actually did not care a whit if he had a gun trained on her. 

Nor should she have been at all considering whether or not witnessing him so de-balled in front of his own child was enough of a turn-off not to finish what they had almost started. 

Today, Emily had begun to severely question her sanity.

She blamed this squarely on Andy Sach's shoulders. Everything was Andy's fault. 

Fumbling around a bottle of vodka, Emily sighed and glared at the muzzle of the gun. "Does she like mustard or mayonnaise?" 

The gun wavered. "What?" 

She rolled her eyes. "For your spawn. Does she like mustard or mayonnaise? It's not a difficult question." 

The gun actually trembled as he contemplated the thought. "Shit. I forgot to ask her." 

Oh Good God. "Fine," she answered flatly, pulling out both. "I mean you'd think you'd actually KNOW this. Miranda makes it a point to know everything about her children-" 

"Oh, fucking Miranda again." The butt of the gun now lodged brutally against her spine, causing her to inhale sharply. "What did I say about your obsession with that woman?" 

"What? That you'll shoot me? Go ahead then!" Because Emily was exhausted of empty threats. And she HATED SANDWHICHES. 

It only reminded her how hungry she was all the bloody time. 

"Don't tempt me, little girl." 

"Oh, why? Because you'll kill me?" Emily slammed the Hellman's container on the counter, and whirled around, shoving at the gun he pressed against her like the annoying fly it was. "Have you ever heard about the story with the boy who cried wolf?" 

"I'm no boy, Emily." His eyes glittered with rage, ruthless anger, but it didn't matter anymore. Emily had worked for Miranda Priestly for years. 

She understood ruthless better than anyone. 

"No, you're worse than that. You're a coward." The flash in his eyes was murderous, and yet, suddenly furious, Emily just did NOT care. 

Not on a day when even as a kidnappee she was subjected to children and food that she couldn't eat. 

"You are," she hissed. "This whole ruse was cooked up about getting revenge against an agent that disfigured you. Who destroyed your identity and took your girl. Isn't that what you've been carrying on about for hours, dreamt about for days? And instead of actually doing something USEFUL with the time you have waiting for this bitch doppelganger to show up and attempt to rescue him, like I don't know… TORTURING Andy, you're in here forcing ME to make a bloody sandwich that your child could have damn well made herself, but you're so scared of her you jump the minute she even LOOKS at you!" 

"Shut up." 

"I will NOT! I'm sick of this! I'm sick of working like a slave for someone and never being properly appreciated for it. I'm not taking it anymore. Not from Miranda, and not from you." Her finger jerked up, and poked angrily into his chest. 

"Don't POKE me," he snarled, red-faced and nearly spitting, he was so furious. 

Good. 

"You can do your own expenses. You can watch your own bloody daughter and make her own damn sandwiches, because I'm not doing them. You might as well kill me or tie me up with Andy and Max because I'm done." She sighed, shaking her head in disgusted defeat. "I have to admit, _Agent 23_ , you are QUITE the disappointment. Here I was thinking I had finally found someone better than Miranda." She straightened against the counter, pressed herself further into his gun, until the steel was caught between torsos, and her eyes were inches away from the bottomless dark of his orbs. "And all this has been has been one," she exhaled lightly, and reached lower, cupping him at his groin. She grinned at the jolt she felt underneath her fingers. "Massive," she admitted, voice dropping an octave. "Disapointment." 

A silent, charged moment, and then the gun was jerked out from between them and his lips were slanting hotly over hers. 

"I said to shut up," he growled between deep, wet kisses. 

She scratched hard at his belt, yanking hard at the buckle and jerking at his zipper. "MAKE ME," she mumbled against his mouth, and sank her teeth into his lower lip. 

His hissed, called her a bitch, and then her head was slammed against the cabinet as she was shoved fiercely on top of the counter. Her legs opened and he jerked between them, kissing her even more violently. No foreplay. Just the scramble of his fingers fumbling underneath her dress, and the satisfying rip of underwear. 

It was exactly what she wanted. 

\--

Things had rapidly gone to hell, and to say Miranda Priestly was severely annoyed was quite the understatement. 

She had a migraine now, and at the moment her only goal, the only one attainable at that moment, at least, was to remain absolutely calm in the face of complete absurdity.

Carefully, _calmly_ she inhaled and exhaled deeply, rubbing fingertips against her temples, and forcing herself to keep quiet as the highly uncomfortable mobile unit carried herself, her children, a robot that the girls were treating like a pet, and a woman who looked exactly like Andrea, but was at the moment loading a clip of bullets into a magnum to a residential home in some twisted parody of a family environment. 

The image was actually cruel. 

Miranda was a practical woman. Her affair with Andrea had been, in her mind, a foolish indulgence, but one she engaged in readily, under the misguided belief that somehow it would end. Despite Miranda's every effort to make sure that did not in fact happen. Despite the fact that every time an argument erupted and Andy walked away, Miranda always did whatever she could to get her back.

But the duality existed. While Andrea was her lover, she had become the children's friend. Their mentor, and the shared owner of that blasted dog that caused all this in the first place. 

Dinners were shared together. Andy's things had been left, quite by accident, once or twice. A scarf. A set of earrings. 

Miranda remembered distinctly an incident not too long ago, when Caroline discovered Andrea's glasses abandoned on a couch, from a late movie night in which she and Andrea had been subjected to some dreadful remake of Cinderella that involved, of all things, hip hop, after which Andrea staggered out the door. 

Caroline had picked up the glasses carefully, and without hesitation, turned to her and smiled, slipping them over her nose. 

"Do I look like Andy?" she had asked her, and seemed so hopeful for an affirmative response, the idea nearly devastated her for a stupidly optimistic reason. 

Up until that moment, Miranda had never even considered the idea that she had been seeking a permanence with Andrea, nurtured a hidden hope that one day, the relationship would shift from a torrid, igniting passion that would burn itself out due to her own self-sabatoge or Andy just deciding it was just not worth it, to something… intimate and secure. 

And now here they were. Her children aware, the entire universe aware, and Andrea was locked up with a madmen, and a woman who could be her sister was seated in her place. 

It was a struggle not be furious at the very thought. 

If that weren't enough: Andrea's life depended on a text message sent between two teenage girls, one of whom was her daughter. 

Her lesbian daughter, apparently, who, through some twist of fate, had had the misfortune to find her first real love (if preteen infatuation could be called that) the daughter of the man who at the moment had kidnapped her own mother's…

Andrea. 

The feel of a finger tracing against her palm startled her so deeply she nearly smacked the offender, until she realized the culprit was Caroline. 

Her daughter jerked back, and blinked, looking apologetic and unsure. "Sorry." 

Sucking in a pained breath, Miranda managed as gentle a smile as she could. "Darling, what is it?" 

Caroline's hard swallow was visible, as she darted a quick glance to Cassidy (at the moment obsessed with eyeing her cellphone, willing it to ring), and then back at her. 

"I just wanted to tell you something," Caroline began, her voice thick and raspy. 

Bringing her hand down, Miranda licked her lips and nodded, feeling exhausted, frightened and desperate not to show it. "Of course." 

Her daughter pricked at her waning patience by continuing to squirm. "I just wanted to say that… you know… when we get Andy back?" 

"Yes?" 

"I'm okay with calling her Mom." 

Across the room, Agent 99 caught her eye, and carefully glanced away. 

Miranda's insides trembled. So carefully, she had set her emotions in order for fear of a panic induced moment of regret, and yet her daughter very nearly sent the wall tumbling down. 

Her eyes pricked with tears, and now Miranda's own smile was wobbly as she leaned up and with a gentle hand, pressed her thumb lovingly against a freckled cheek. 

"I think it's a little premature for something like that," she answered, voice rough as gravel. "I am your mother. As for what Andy could be… let's just wait and see, shall we?" 

Underneath her touch, Caroline managed a bittersweet smile, before her daughter scooted closer and bent her head to her shoulder, hugging her tightly around her middle. 

Against her will, a warm tear slipped down her cheek, and Miranda allowed herself this one weakness, before she wrapped her daughter in a comforting embrace, and pressed a loving kiss against sweet smelling red hair. 

The phone in Cassidy's hand chirped, buzzed, and Cassidy jumped so high, she nearly hit her head on the ceiling of the moving van. 

"She's calling!" she yelped, and immediately 99 held her hand out. 

Cassidy didn't give up the phone. She answered it, brought it to her ear and swept back a bang over her ear as she began breathlessly, "Heather, that picture you sent is totally my Mom's ex-assistant. Your dad has Andy, and we need your help to save her." 

\--


	10. Two-Face

_The down mattress of Miranda Priestly's enormous bed was so comfortable, lying down on it felt like a decadent treat._

_And yet it was almost amusing if Andy Sachs really took the time to think about it, because she was almost positive that the entire scene she was presenting belonged in one of those 'one of these things doesn't belong' story books._

_Nestled against a 500 thread count silk sheet, in her out of season (and wrinkled) designer duds, with a three-legged mutt pressed up against her on one side and an enormous Saint Bernhard sandwiching her on the other, Andy's eyelids flickered and her breathing slowed, but her exhausted mind remained active, and so it caused a bit of an unintended shock when she heard Miranda speak, low and to the point, just below she succumbed to sleep._

_"This is wrong."_

_The sentence, hitting her in a particularly vulnerable spot, caused an unexpected jolt inside of her, and Andy's eyes shot open, and she sat up self consciously, blinking blearily and with alarm at the woman who had just entered the room._

_"What?"_

_But Miranda wasn't looking at her. Instead her focus was on the book. Glasses fixed on her face, Miranda's expression was thoroughly annoyed, as she flipped through the pages with a rapid twitch that would have ripped them clear out of the spine had Miranda not been … well… Miranda._

_The realization that Miranda was not talking about her, but rather her precious book was such a relief, Andy felt stupid about it. Heat flushed her cheeks, and she pushed against the bed, scooting up, which caused Heathcliff to whine a bit, and Patricia to sigh in resignation and readjust herself to place her massive chin against Andy's shin._

_"The entire book…" Miranda continued, soft and exhausted, but still audibly furious. "I'll be up all night fixing this. I specifically told Nigel I did not want the Valentino shoot shot with a soft focus - it ruins the lines-" Miranda glanced up, and suddenly saw her._

_Andy looked a mess, probably. She hadn't meant to flop down on the bed like she had. Her … affair with Miranda, though it had been months, had not progressed to anything but quickies when the two of them had the time. It didn't mean Andy felt comfortable flopping over Miranda's snow white blankets and sheets in dirty clothes that smelled like subway._

_But the day HAD been exhausting. She had been all over the city on less than two hours of sleep, and had Miranda not texted her to tell her the children had been taken to their father's for an unexpected overnight sleepover, she would have already staggered into her home and zonked out on her less than pretty mattress._

_Her original intention had been to shower. Scrub the grime off of her and wake up long enough to give Miranda what they both wanted, before she collapsed and zonked out and after some hours of sleep, snuck out of the house before the help came and realized the family friend had become an overnight visitor._

_Temptation had been overwhelming, however, when Andy walked in and looked at the bed._

_Before she had known what she was doing, she was crawling over a forgiving mattress and plastering herself across the soft, soft sheets…_

_And somehow or other five minutes became much more than that, because Miranda had apparently gotten the book and was now staring at her like she had found a squatter in her house._

_"Sorry," she said immediately, voice rough and betraying her exhaustion._

_"You look like hell." No one would ever accuse Miranda of mincing words._

_"Yeah, I know…" Andy said, too tired to take offense. "I'm sorry. I had this story and it wouldn't… I mean I couldn't… I didn't get much sleep and I had this deadline and… I'm really sorry…"_

_She eased her way carefully to the end of the bed, easing her feet down to the floor._

_"Stop."_

_The command caused her to freeze up immediately, glance up with wide brown eyes as Miranda practically tossed the book on a nearby chair and headed for her, expression unreadable. Breath catching, Andy blinked when the other woman settled down beside her, and with palms smoothing on either side of her cheeks, began to study her as carefully as she would study one of her pages._

_"I didn't realize you were so exhausted," Miranda began quietly. "Had I known, I would not have asked you to come over."_

_The meaning behind it stung. Already, Andy was battling the fear that Miranda only used her for sex or babysitting. To have actual confirmation was a little more than her rapidly shrinking heart could take._

_"I wouldn't have come over it I didn't want to," she said, stiffer than she meant, unable to mask the hurt. "Just let me take a shower and I can wake up again. I really didn't mean to just fall asleep like that."_

_Miranda's eyes shifted to meet with hers. "Andrea, it's quite obvious you need rest. You should not have come if you are this exhausted."_

_"Don't tell me what I need." She said it angrily, like a teenage girl on a pout, but it hid a disarming truth. As much as Andrea wanted to sleep… she had wanted to see Miranda more._

_God._

_The gaze held._

_Without a word Miranda shifted beside her, and suddenly her fingers had descended between Andy's breasts and were working nimbly at her buttons, pulling them free._

_Andy was relieved of the vest, and then her white button down shirt followed, leaving behind a sensible black bra that was neither overtly sexy or designer._

_Miranda eyed it for a moment before she smoothed her palm against Andy's ribs, causing immediate goose bumps over the skin she skimmed, before she journeyed around her back. With a flick, the support around Andy's breasts loosened, the strapped sliding down her shoulders._

_And yet, when Andy's head dipped, ready to capture Miranda's lips in a kiss, the other woman jerked her head away with an angry hiss._

_"None of that," Miranda snapped. Andy's brow furrowed, her mouth pulled down in a confused frown. But Miranda only continued undressing her, color deepening on her cheeks as Miranda took in the naked chest, and with purpose latched onto Andy's palms and pulled firmly._

_"Up." Shakily, Andy did as she was commanded, standing still at the edge of the bed as Miranda handled her, undressed her, sliding her palm against her ribs and drifted to her waist._

_Her slacks were buttoned, and they fell away, leaving Andrea in nothing but her underwear._

_Breathless, Andrea waited._

_Miranda wore no expression, but her eyes were darker than Andy had ever seen them, and so intense Andy could scarcely breathe._

_Fingers tangled with hers, and then Miranda was moving, pulling her up onto the bed. Dumbstruck, Andy followed her lead, until she was spooned by her lover. Miranda Priestly, in her ridiculously expensive work clothes, had crawled in behind her, was holding her against her for a quiet moment, before she shifted and suddenly those magical fingers were against her temples, kneading slowly._

_The sensation was overwhelming. Andy's lips parted, a grateful groan erupted before she could help it._

_The sound caused her eyes to open immediately. "Miranda."_

_"Get some rest." Miranda's tone was low, but there was no room for argument. "You obviously have no problem napping in this bed. Use it, then."_

_But there was no recrimination._

_Just the feel of Miranda holding her. Massaging her._

_Just because she was tired._

_"Your clothes…"_

_"I do employ a reputable dry cleaning service."_

_Her eyes drifted closed, and she inhaled the sweet, intoxicating scent of Miranda. "I'll just take a short nap-"_

_"You'll spend the night."_

_Fingers drifted from her temple to her own hands, and Andy tangled their digits firmly, keeping Miranda with her._

_*I love you*. The words clogged in her throat. She dared not say them._

_"Yes Miranda," she breathed instead, and pressed her dry lips to the hands she was holding, drifting away._

\--

"This is wrong." 

Andy had long ago discarded her heels. She walked through the dusty tunnels in bare feet, and with her dress dirty and in tatters. Thanks to her unfortunate fall, she was limping. 

The fact that Super Spy Man was stating the obvious only caused irritation. 

He paused, glancing back and forth as he listened, studying a dimming maze of tunnels that looked behind them exactly the same as what lay before them.

All Andy heard was water dripping. Slumping to the floor, she sighed heavily, feeling the roughness of the wood against her shoulders as she closed her eyes. 

"I agree," she snapped, running fingers through dirty hair. "This is so very wrong. I should be at my place, with Miranda. I shouldn't be in a stupid tunnel running for my life, thinking about Lewis Carroll and his stupid high ramblings about rabbit holes and mushrooms. This is so very wrong." 

Max shot her a look that could only be exasperation. 

"No, I mean this is wrong," he said, swinging his arms out wide, staring up into the dark corners of the tunnels. "We're moving around, completely unmolested." 

"And that's a bad thing because?" 

"It's a bad thing because we shouldn't be. Why hasn't 23 come down here for us? He must have figured out we were gone by now. He must know these tunnels like the back of his hand." 

Andy's headache pulsed. Gritting her teeth, she shut her eyes, and smiled grimly. "So our problem is NOT that we're this close to passing out and wandering around these tunnels with no end in sight, but that the crazy assassin man out to get us hasn’t come down to kill us for escaping?" 

Max furrowed his brow, stock still. "Something's wrong," he murmured. "Something has gone wrong, or we're heading into a trap." 

"At least we're moving." 

"Yes, but into what?" Max shook his head. "I could be leading us further into danger." 

"Or to freedom." 

"I don’t like our odds." 

"Are all spies such cheery people?" she asked dryly. "I mean, James Bond usually has a fun quip or some insanely inflated sense of security that keeps up the moral. You could try that you know." 

"At the moment, I'm most interested in keeping you and Miss Emily alive," he muttered, and sank to his haunches, lost in thought. "I still have to figure out how to get her out." 

Oh, right. Emily. A stab of regret pricked Andy in her already tight chest. Emily, who hated her now because of Miranda. 

"If I had any sort of leverage I could wait out 23. Try to take him by surprise…" 

"But you don't. Max, you're stumbling. I'm stumbling. We're not exactly at full strength right now. And we've waited long enough for your girlfriend to show up." 

His eyes jerked up, met hers with a vicious indignation that could have only meant he was thinking the same thing. 

"Listen to me." He rubbed his hands together, handsome face etched with dust. "I made you a promise. You will get back to Ms. Priestly and her family. You'll help me. And if you do that, then I can get back to 99 and Fang." 

"Fang?" 

"My dog." 

Fair was fair, she supposed. A grim, tight smile emerged on her exhausted face. "Deal," she told him, and held out her hand. He took it, and she was helped up, until they were standing together, with a clasped handshake. "So what do you suggest? We can go forward blindly or back blindly." 

He didn't hesitate. "Forward, Ms. Sachs. Always forward. Never return to where you've already been." 

"Are you being philosophical?" 

"Well it's not a quip but it seemed fitting." 

The statement made her chuckle, and she couldn’t deny it: she needed the release badly. 

The look Max gave her when she did that, was different somehow. The quiet smile on his face had frozen for something else. Something… bittersweet. 

And it transformed him. 

Standing in front of her was a dusty older man, who looked at her like he was in love. 

It was then, she realized, with a quickening breath that caused a stutter of her heartbeat, that he was suddenly seeing his girlfriend. 

At her stiffening, he blinked, flushed, and suddenly seemed himself again, shaking his head as if to rattle the cobwebs out. 

"I’m sorry," he said, taking a step back, sounding genuinely apologetic. "You just… you smile just like her." 

Swallowing hard, she glanced away. There it was. The knowledge, the idea…

Another woman. With her face. A face just like hers. A whole other life. 

No, it was't the time to think about it. To think about it would probably result in freaking out and she couldn't freak out right now. Everything hinged on not freaking out. 

"I'm going to have to meet her," she said quietly, managing as comforting a smile as she could under the circumstances. 

At that, his kind mouth creased into a good natured grin. When Max kept going, she gladly followed. 

\-- 

Considering the situation she found herself in, Heather Johnson discovered herself oddly calm. 

It wasn't everyday, after all, that a girlfriend told her that her father had accidentally taken her mother's girlfriend hostage. 

In the wake of that revelation, and the knowledge that Miranda Priestly knew that a) her parents were crooks, and b) her dad had Andy, Heather found herself ridiculously glad that the first feeling was numb disbelief. 

The second overwhelming response was the pressure that built upon her chest, and set her heart beating so fast she wondered if this was what a heart attack was. 

"Heather?" The woman on the other end of the phone sound raspy, careful. "Heather, I realize what we're asking is an extremely difficult thing to do-" 

"-no it's not," she blurted, blinking and rubbing at the stinging tears that had come upon her without her even realizing it. And once they started, they wouldn't stop. The numbness faded and the pressure built, and Heather Johnson, thirteen years old, found her knees giving out on her, crumpling to the floor in her dad's hallway, sobbing like a … like a girl. 

"… Heather. Honey." 

No. Fuck no. 

She clutched the phone to her ear, and scrambled to her feet, sucking in a huge breath and wiping furiously at the drops on her cheeks. "No, listen. I'm going to help you. I'm going to help you find them, and then I'm going to help you get my dad. And when you do? I want you to arrest him and lock him up forever! Do you understand me! You GET me the fuck away from him." 

The fervent emotion behind her request must have startled the woman on the phone, but Heather didn't care. 

Nothing mattered anymore, because Heather was just tired. She was tired of all of it. 

And Cassidy knew now, and her mother knew, and it was all gonna go to hell because of her fucking Dad-

"Heather, honey…" 

"NO, you PROMISE me," she hissed, back of her hand rubbing against her eyes, because the silent tears kept coming even if she wasn't sobbing anymore. "You promise me you're going to get me away from him, and you're going to tell Cassidy I helped you. You're going to tell her mom I helped you." 

"Heather-" 

"PROMISE me, fucker." 

The line was quiet, but she heard a soft indrawn breath. "Of course, Heather. Of course. We'll do whatever you want." 

The hiccups had come, wracking her skinny body with unintentional shivers, the emotion so fierce and raw she felt weak. But her eyes were drier now, even if they were still stinging, and the adrenaline began to sink in, as she tiptoed to the top of the stairs and peeked down. 

"Allright," she mumbled, and opened her mouth to suck in another lungful of air. "I'll call you back in five minutes." 

"Heather." 

"Five minutes," she snapped, and shut the phone. Carefully, with her sneakers stepping purposefully and lightly, she made her way down the stairs, listening for any movement. 

At first there was nothing. And then she heard it. Banging from the kitchen. 

God. 

"I hate him," she whispered, the emotion flaring from deep inside of her. "I hate him. I hate him." 

She moved fast, sneaking past the kitchen, stopping only to point a middle finger at the banging and groaning inside, and stopping at the unassuming door next door. 

There was a fingerprint scanner. 

Licking her lips, Heather carefully pressed her finger on the access pad. 

The door unlocked. 

Her heart jumped in her throat, and Heather glanced furtively again at the closed kitchen door, before she ducked inside. 

Her father's security room was state of the art, but she didn't take any time to admire the gadgetry.

Instead, feet moved forward and she slipped into the seat built large enough to accommodate her father as she began to type fast at the keyboard, working through the program with the speed of the promising hacker she was trained to be. 

A few false starts, and she found the trick, flipping through the cameras her father had installed all over the house, room by room. 

Buttons clicked rapidly, and Heather's eyes stung, felt swollen, but they processed the information, orbs flashing over commands and codes, sifting through each room and still… nothing. 

One minute. Two minutes. 

Heather stopped typing, heart jackknifed in her throat, a shred of hope emerging that this was all wrong… 

The button clicked again, and then she saw tunnels - her dad's underground railroad tunnels… 

And she saw people. 

A man, and a woman. Andy. Staggering through the dark in Dad's tunnels. 

They were there. Trying to get out. 

Mice in a maze. 

She bit the fat of her palm to keep from crying again. Sucking in another hard pant, Heather sat and considered her options. 

Quickly, she began to type, working fast until she had pulled up a blue print of the house, and a schematic of her dad's tunnels. 

With one eye on the pair, she began to trace their route to a possible exit. 

\-- 

The wait was agonizing.

"If she doesn't call back in another minute I'm taking Hymie and we're going in," she whispered to the Chief over her radio, eyeing the blueprints that were spread out over the only open table in the mobile unit. 

"99, I'm telling you to wait. You know the only reason 23 has taken Max is because he's got a vendetta against you." 

"The longer we wait, the less time we have," she snapped. "There's a kid in there, Chief, and she's freaking out. She's emotionally traumatized and at this point, there is no way of knowing if she's going to follow through with helping us or she's-" 

"Heather said she'd help!" 

The indignant shout came from Cassidy, who jerked away from her mother's grasp and glared at her with the kind of fierce loyalty only a child could own. 

99 met Miranda's gaze, pressed her lips together silently. 

"Cassidy," the mother began calmly. "You need to sit here, and be quiet." 

"NO." The girl jerked away from her mother. "She said she would help. She said she was going to help us get Andy and she's gonna. You don't know her like I do." Wild eyes fell on Caroline, her twin sister, at the moment deadly silent. "Tell them, Caroline." 

Her sister only stared. "I don’t know her, Cassidy." 

"You do too!" 

"Girls," Miranda began, but the little girl was close to crying now. 

"She's gonna help. She has to. And you can't blame her for this. You don’t know her." 

No, she didn't know Heather. 

99 hadn't known her father either. She had been his lover. They had been intimate, and that had been a devastating mistake. 

It had cost her her face. Her identity, and now, it might have cost her two innocent lives, the happiness of the family in this van, and Max. 

She lifted her finger to her ear. "Chief, we've got to secure the area, get 23 in custody. And we're getting that girl away from him." Slowly, she met the eyes of the crying girl staring at her. "We going to do everything we can to keep her safe, I promise that. Whether or not she helps us."

Cassidy's phone began to ring and with it, 99's body flushed with emotion. Before Cassidy could move, she picked up, and held it to her ear. 

"Heather?" 

"I've hacked into my dad's security system," came the strained voice of a girl who was achingly young. "The guy and Andy are in Dad's tunnels, trying to get out." 

Until that moment, 99 had told herself not to even entertain the idea that they would not be alive. 

But the relief that struck her was overwhelming, as her eyes shut and she clenched her fists, trying to keep herself calm. "Okay." 

"It's a total maze. They'll never find their way out without help. I've traced the routes, and I've disabled the booby traps. In a minute, you'll get the access codes to enter the tunnels from behind the house." 

The information came so fast it was disorienting, and 99 struggled to keep up. "Okay," she said simply. "And what about the third hostage? Emily?" 

"Emily?" said the girl. "Fuck Emily. Right now she's in the kitchen banging my Dad." 

\-- 

"Oh my fucking God." 

Dwayne Johnson, fly open and sweaty as all hell, had not felt so incredibly awesome in a really, really long time. 

"Do you like that?" he asked, and flicked his finger, driving it deeper into her mouth. "Take it bitch." 

The sandwich disappeared between Emily's lips and she bit into it with relish. "Oh, GOD," she mumbled, chewing so happily it looked like she was this close to coming yet again. "I forgot how much I LOVE eating." 

"You could stand to eat something," he grumbled, and she shook her head happily, smacking his hand away from the smooshed concoction of ham, cheese and bread he had thrown together less than a minute before. 

"I think I will now," Emily said, after a large swallow. "Fuck Miranda Priestly." 

"No, fuck me," he corrected, and damn, she had. And damn, he needed it. He needed fantastic sex. He had forgotten what that felt like. 

"What, again?" 

He grinned. "Keeps me from killing you." 

Her eyes opened, latched onto his for a loaded stare that had his dick twitching once again. But the redhead only shook her head, a smile sneaking onto her fact that actually seemed charming. 

It was disturbing that he thought that. 

"Ah. There you are." 

The statement was met with confusion. Dwayne blinked, and then watched as Emily sat up against the counter, smoothing down the wild hair and chomping down the last of the sandwich. 

"Excuse me?" 

Slender hands pushed lightly at his torso, just enough to allow her to get to the floor and smooth her skirt down. Oddly, he found himself helping her, keeping her steady as she slipped her heels back on. 

"I mean, the bad ass ruthless killer is back." The girl smiled at him, freckles buried into the flushed face thanks to the added color on her cheeks. "The one who could kill me in a heartbeat." She crossed her arms and studied him. "Why on earth can't you be that way with your daughter?" 

"You want me to threaten to kill my kid?" 

"Not quite," she allowed, and Dwayne watched with narrowed eyes as Emily reached for the gun that had been thrown against the refrigerator. Pointedly, he jerked it out of her grasp. Again, she got a disagreeable annoyed expression. "I just mean that children need authority. Like anyone else. They like being told what to do. It keeps them feeling safe." 

"My kid is safe." 

"From what? You?" 

"She knows I'm not going to kill her." 

"Of course she does. She walks all over you." 

The annoyance prickled inside of him, and on reflex, he placed the muzzle of the gun directly against her heart. "Do I need to remind you of your place?" 

But she only smacked it away. 

"Would you stop with that and listen to me?" she asked, sounding only mildly irritated. "I've worked in fashion all my life. Facing the consequences for dropping a call for Miranda Priestly is much more frightening than anything you can give me, I assure you." 

Again, fucking Miranda Priestly. 

"You're turning me off." 

"I've already gotten what I want, what do I care?" 

The statement threw him, forced him to reel back and regard her again. 

Emily only grinned smugly, grabbing another slice of bread and tearing off a piece to pop into her mouth. "Listen, you've given me a fantastic orgasm and I'm not hungry for the first time in… since I can remember actually. I'm feeling remarkably sated on all levels. So, even though you are a killer, and have kidnapped me and inconvenienced me greatly, I am simply trying to return the favor by offering you some simple advice about your child. You love her don't you?" 

The question was so confusing, it nearly struck him dumb. "Are you kidding?" 

"Well, are you a true sociopath or do you love your daughter?" Emily arched an eyebrow. "You are obviously capable of SOME emotion if you've gone to such great lengths to enact this kidnapping scam. Revenge smacks of jilted pride. Some part of you obviously liked this 99, to which I say? WHY? Andy's not even that good looking!" 

"We're not talking about 99." 

"Good. Then let's talk about torturing Andy." 

The statement was said with such glee and happiness, it was like looking in a mirror. And then she smiled again, and Dwayne groaned, snarling as he lunged forward and plunged a tongue into her mouth. 

The beep at his watch jerked him away, just as she was smoothing her palm down his chest and toward his pants. 

"What?" she asked thickly. 

"Someone's in the security room," he breathed.


	11. Sugar, We're Going Down

_Tut, tut, child! Everything's got a moral, if only you can find it._  
\- Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll

It wasn't that Emily didn't consider morality. She knew there were people who were inherently 'good' and people who were inherently 'bad'. At the very least, she understood that there were two extremes, but to be honest…

Emily never really understood the fuss about morality. 

Between black and white were all the colors of the rainbow, and if there was a reason why Emily loved fashion, it was because she loved color. 

The idea of a villain and a hero… it all seemed so superficial and pointless to her. What mattered weren't morals but deeds, and by deeds, she meant success. 

And the world was painted with hypocrites regardless. People like Andy Sachs, who thought they were such saints, but swept into her office with her fat clothes and horrid hair and stole her job and her place, and more than that, stole Miranda Priestly. 

Added to these charges was almost certainly murder. The jury was out as to whether or not Andy and her stupid face would actually get Emily killed, because although Dwayne had yet to kill her, he had made the threat with enough blasé carelessness that led Emily to believe he was capable of it. 

Was it odd to enjoy the company of the man who would murder you? 

Was this when morals would have been a useful thing to have? 

It occurred to Emily that she was thinking about this all a little late in the game, but in her defense, she had, after all, been knocked out by an Andy Doppelganger, been tied up and left in a closet, been kidnapped, forced to do accounting and expenses, and on top of all that discovered that Andy Sachs had been carrying on with Miranda Priestly for months, claimed to love her, and the entire outside world knew about it. 

Her role as a hostage had long since been muddled with hysteria, hunger, blind fury and sex, and in the wake of actually eating something and having some of the wound up energy screwed out of her, Emily discovered herself coherent and calm in a way that seemed … abnormal. 

She had her world outside. She had her life, and yet… it almost felt as if a Miranda-colored veil had been lifted, and Emily was finally seeing herself. 

Ironically, it had been thanks to a sociopath who would more than likely put a bullet in her head after having opened her eyes so readily. 

There was something seriously wrong with her. 

She was drifting hand in hand to a security room with the killer who had just fucked her into near unconsciousness, silently moving with him as he prepared to overtake whoever it was that had gotten into his security room.

And she was doing this willingly. 

"I feel like I should be telling you not to kill anyone." 

The glare he sent her clearly insinuated that she shut up. 

"I'm just saying!" 

"And you said it," he snapped, a harsh whisper. "Now will you shut up on your own, or am I going to have to do it?" 

The threat should not have been the turn on it was. 

One look at his face told her he agreed. 

Biting down the smirk, she quirked a challenging eyebrow, but kept quiet. 

Dwayne let go of her hand and raised his gun, broad shoulders braced against the wall as he moved away from the door, taking care to keep as quiet as a mouse. 

For a man of his size, she had to admit, it was impressive. 

Ten feet from the door, there was a dresser which a frame on it. Gun in position, he reached for the frame with his free hand, and maneuvered it like a lever. 

Emily heard a click, and with a swish an entire section of the wall slid into itself, exposing the security room. 

Without hesitation, Dwayne swiveled into the room, gun pointed at the unseen intruder. 

"FREEZE." 

A secret entrance. And he had let her see it. 

That sealed it. He would kill her. Resigned and numb about it, Emily wondered if he would allow her to kill Andy first. 

Just to see what it felt like. 

Because chances were they got out of this alive, and Miranda found out she had attacked her precious Andy… she was more than likely fired. 

It wasn't like she had much to lose. 

Sucking in a shaky breath, Emily peeked inside, ducking in just before the secret door slid shut behind her, locking her in. 

Eyes widened, Emily's mouth dropped open when she discovered it was Heather, his tomboy daughter, seated in her father's chair, staring down the barrel of a gun with a look that looked to be frozen in a mixture of fear and annoyance. 

"Dad? What the fuck?" 

The gun did not waver, but the hardened expression on the agent's face did soften. At least for a second. "Heather?" An angry scowl stretched across the angry face. "What are you doing in here?!" 

"If you didn't want me in here why the fuck did you let me have access?!" 

Emily was a master of details. Years under Miranda's tutelage had not been in vain. In her oddly sated state, she found herself noticing little things that seemed to present a picture that was out of focus - incomplete. Heather, little tomboy Heather who, up until twenty or so minutes ago, had appeared careless and bored, now sported beads of sweat on her forehead. Red eyes. 

When little lost eyes took in her father's state of wrinkled shirt with the lapels tucked out, the manhandled dress with the noticeable rip on Emily's shoulder, lower lips began to pout, and Emily feared she was going to be in the room for a full on tantrum. 

Thankfully, they were saved from such embarrassment when Dwayne lowered his gun deliberately, sucking in a breath that she could only assume was an attempt to keep control of himself. 

"My mistake," he snarled. "I was going to bring you in here eventually to teach you how to use this, but apparently, you just helped yourself." 

Emily blinked at the presence of his backbone. Apparently the pep talk had worked. 

"Well, what the hell did you expect me to do, Dad? You were too busy getting it on with Little Miss Tuffet over there to realize that your fucking hostages are getting away." 

"What?" 

A thumb was thrown to the direction of the monitors. Emily's breath caught, and she found herself conflicted and unsure what to feel when she looked upon the very real image of Andy and her spy stumbling through Dwayne's maze. 

"Great spy work, Dad," Heather added idly. "Super observant. No wonder you got your face blown off." 

But something had obviously clicked in his head. There was no hesitation as he moved forward, placing the gun back in his belt and turning the keyboard away from the child, typing into his own commands. "They're on the second level, right above us." 

Emily came forward, arms crossed as she bit her lip and leaned forward, searching the screen he pulled up. 

"Here," she said, pointing at a moving dot on what looked like a digital blueprint of the building. "It looks as if they're going in circles." 

"That's Dad's plan," Heather responded drolly. "Like rats in a cage, right Pop?" 

A muscle in his cheek twinged, as he glanced from monitor to child, back to the monitor. "So you came in here to find them for me. Because you thought I had lost them." He paused, thinking this through. "You were trying to help me." 

The insinuation was clear, and Emily's eyes narrowed as Heather's eyes drifted away, moved to the floor, an obvious attempt by a teenager to deflect. 

"Geez, Dad, relax!" Heather muttered, flushing across her cheeks. "I was just bored." 

She was lying. 

What was she lying about? 

Before Emily could even ask, her lover and kidnapper reached forward with his massive arms and pulled his skinny daughter into such a fierce hug, he nearly choked her, making her squirm. 

"That's my GIRL!" he said hoarsely, and pressed a kiss against the scruffy brown hair.

"Don't touch me," shot back the girl. Dwayne immediately let go, leaving a girl with a flushed, unreadable furious face. Dark eyes jerked to meet Emily's. "Wha'd you do to him?" 

She could only shrug helplessly. 

Thankfully, she was ignored in favor of the giddy father chucking at his girl's chin, causing another shiver of revulsion from Heather that would have been amusing had Emily not been so confused. 

"No, I just… I gotta tell ya, when your mom said we should do this… I had my doubts. But… to see you in here… doing your thing… helping your old man…" He grinned like a loon. "I've never been more proud." Squatting down, he grabbed hold of Heather's hands and pulled them into his lap, the smile idiotic. "I mean, if you're not lying. Tell me you're not lying, Heather. Because I love you honey, and Daddy would hate to have to hurt you." 

He said it so sincerely, matter-of-fact, and yet Emily herself did not want to think about what his method of punishment might be. When Heather once again glanced in her direction, she found herself shaking her head minutely for the girl's own good. 

"I'm just kidding!" he burst, laughing out loud before he pressed a kiss against Heather's cheek. Then the smile dropped just as quickly. "But I'm serious about the lying part." 

Uncomfortable silence filled the room, and Emily bit her lip, unsure why she was so relieved when Heather chuckled helplessly and pulled her hands out of his grip, wiping them on her jeans. 

"Chill out, Dad. Why the hell would I lie to you?" 

Good question. Crossing her arms, Emily narrowed her eyes and once again glanced at the monitor tracking Andy and Max's movements. 

She sucked in a breath, and let it out noisily. "Perhaps someone should go after them?" she asked pointedly. 

"Don't worry." Dwayne grinned, lost in his own narcissism. "Houdini couldn't get out of there without help." Rising to his full, imposing height, he gripped his gun and checked the charges. "Heather, you see that radio? Daddy's going to be wearing an implant. You keep me posted, okay?" 

"Sure, Dad." 

"Good girl." Another scruff of her hair, and he was moving. To Emily's surprised, he gripped her arm, and dragged her with him, until they were out of the room and away from Heather's line of sight. "Did you see her in there? She's a natural, isn't she?" 

Conflicted, and unsure why, Emily glanced again at the door. "She's lying." 

"Of course she is." He grinned. "Emily, come on. I'm a secret agent. You think I can't tell when someone is lying to me?" 

Tension dropped into her stomach like a rock. "Of course," she muttered stiffly. 

"But… she's got such a natural talent at it, don't you think" He sighed, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he frowned. "God, it's a pity that she's done this. I really am proud of her." 

And then she saw him. The killer. The sociopath. The bad man. The same man she had been with this entire afternoon. He had never changed. 

And yet she was standing here… listening to him and his implications… 

"You can't kill her," she blurted. "I realize I am in no position to tell you that, but she is your daughter." 

"But torturing and killing Andy Sachs is okay." 

"Andy Sachs is an adult," she snapped. "And there is a difference." 

"Gotta love shaky morals." He grinned. "Tell you what. You watch my daughter, make sure she doesn't completely fuck this up for me, and I won't kill her. How's that?" 

Of course he would exploit this. He was a bastard after all. 

He was a brilliant bastard. 

He stared at her, and then… she saw it. The moment of sincerity, the briefest moment of conflict. 

He wouldn't kill his daughter. Not even after all this. 

In this, even Dwayne Johnson had his own sordid set of acceptable colors. 

Without thinking, she leaned forward and met his lunge half way, sucking in his tongue and clutching onto broad shoulders as he palmed her ass and yanked her tight against him. 

Pulling away to pant harshly, Emily's heart pounded, her mind swam. 

"Be back soon," he growled against her mouth, and then he was gone, moving down the hall with the grace and strength of a true killer. 

She gave herself a moment, as she shakily smoothed down her skirt and sucked in a lungful of air, and then Emily was herself again, pasting on a scowl and wrenching open the door to the security room, closing it firmly behind her. 

From the chair, Heather regarded her from underneath wild brunette bangs and swollen, moist eyes. 

She looked like a child. 

"Allright then," Emily began, in a tone, until recently, she had reserved for unruly assistants or unhelpful concierges. "You are obviously lying. You will tell me what exactly is going on, or your father will kill us both." 

The smile on the child's face was shaky. "What does it look like I'm doing?" Heather turned back to the keyboard, clicked fast through the screens. "I'm gonna get those people out. I'm gonna put him away. I'm gonna put you away, and then I'm getting the hell away from him." 

Shakily, Heather lifted her arm. 

In her hand was a gun, pointed directly at Emily's heart. 

\--

99 knew that the wisest thing to do in a situation like this was to be like the ten men behind her, fitted with helmets, bullet proof vests, protective gear that would keep them as safe as possible during this operation. 

But she had never become an agent because she was wise. 

Yellow glasses, a bullet proof vest, her gun, and the small PDA that carried the schematics she had downloaded from Heather were the only things she carried with her, as she led the descent into Agent 23's twisted maze of tunnels. 

Carefully, she pressed against the dank smelling wood, peering into the shadows beyond the flickering lights, keeping the men behind her with a fisted hand in the air. 

"Chief," she whispered into her radio, "We're in. Engaging radio silence." 

"Acknowledged, 99." 

They were in a battle against on of their own; one of their best. 

Head craning, she took in the faces of the agents behind her, clutching onto their semi-automatics, their magnums, looking scared as hell over the prospect of coming face-to-face with the legendary Agent 23. 

There was no room for hesitation or fear. 

Not when Max and the lives of two innocents were at stake. 

99 had spent years without a partner. She had spent years fostering the idea that to truly be strong, she needed to be alone. Independent. Accountable to nothing but her country and the Chief. Her brief dalliance with 23 only proved that trust, need in someone else, only instilled weakness. 

She truly had believed that. 

But now, she was backed up by ten agents, and none of them were Max. 

99 had never felt weaker. 

Inhaling unsteadily, she got a hold of herself, nodding quickly down the hall, her fist shifting to a pointed index finger. 

Quietly, quickly, they moved down the tunnels. 99 only heard the beeping in her ear, a homing beacon, bringing her closer and closer to Max. 

\--

Caroline had always liked things that moved. Remote control cars. Little robots. Her school project had been a hydraulic robotic arm made from wood and syringes filled with water. She had written a program for it and everything. 

Andy had helped with it. They had even used food coloring in the pumps, making the water pink. 

Hymie was just a bigger version of her hydraulic water pump. 

It made for a welcome distraction. 

The van they were stuck in seemed suffocating small, and her Mom, who normally looked so together and in control and… sure about everything… only sat in the corner, glasses on, looking more robotic that Hymie did. 

Cassidy, on the other side of the van, wasn't speaking to her. 

Not like it mattered. 

So she settled on the bench and worked the controls, watching as the life size robot with the kind brown eyes and the plastic smile reached down to his shoes and tied his laces. 

Behind them, the computers spurted to life with static, and then dropped silent again. 

"Mom?" 

Carline glanced up. Her sister was edging toward their mother, eyes brimming with tears, because Cassidy had always been a big crybaby. 

"What is it?" Caroline had never heard her mother's tone so deep. 

"Don't worry." Caroline frowned as she heard Cassidy speak, and looked back at her remote, fingering the controls and letting Hymie sit up and carefully began to see if she could work his fingers, signing the first few letters of the alphabet. "Heather's taking care of Andy. She's going to save her, you'll see." 

The statement was so ludicrous, Caroline found herself jerking her fingers, and nearly causing the robot to punch a hole in the steel. 

The force caused a bang loud enough to make them wince, flooding the van like a sonic boom, and when they both looked at her, she suddenly didn't care. 

Her only focus was her own fury. "You're so STUPID, Cassidy!" 

Her sister's eyes widened, because Cassidy was SO dense sometimes. "What?!" 

"You heard them!" she hissed, tossing the remote beside her, swiveling to face her sister. "Her Dad is a TRAITOR, he's like … a total killer! You know what that makes her?!" 

"It doesn't make her anything!" 

"It makes her just like him!" she hissed, heart pounding hard in her chest, making it hard to even hear herself above the blood rushing into her ears. "It makes her not normal!" 

"Shut up, Caroline." 

"It's true!" 

"No, it's not!" Her sister launched to her feet, glaring at her with blazing eyes, because Caroline dared to speak about her stupid precious girlfriend. "You're just jealous. You've always been jealous." 

The remark hit her in a place she hadn't expected, and it made her wince, words choking in her throat before she shook herself vehemently. "No I'm not. You're just stupid." 

"No, you are! You're stupid because you expected us to be like… together all the time, and you wanted me to be just like you! You've always thought that because we're twins we had to be the same - we're NOT the same, Caroline. I'm different. I'm different than you. But you never listened, and so I stopped trying to share it with you. And now you're just jealous." 

"Girls…" 

But Caroline didn't care about her mother now. She was too infuriated. "Of what? Your stupid gay girlfriend who looks like a boy? A freak with a terrorist for a dad!? Why would I be jealous of that?!" 

The slap that jerked across her face came so hard and so fast Caroline nearly reeled from the shock of it. 

She stumbled back, palm smacking to the abused cheek, eyes watering as she stared at her own sister. The look on her sisters face: shock, horror - it could have been her own. 

And then there was no time to fight back, no time to respond, because a cruel hand closed over her wrist and Caroline was yanked, along with Cassidy toward their mother. 

She had never seen her mother so upset. Her eyes were wide, and her lips were trembling. Veins throbbed at her temples and the grip on her wrist was so tight she nearly whimpered in protest. 

"That is enough." Her mother spoke in a low, unsteady hiss, so full of rage her voice actually wobbled. "Obviously I haven't been paying attention to what has been brewing between the two of you and that is my fault, but at the moment there is NO room for bickering. At this moment there will be nothing but quiet, do you understand?" 

Lips pinched together, eyes wide, chest heaving, Caroline tried to swallow down her emotion and nod. 

Beside her, Cassidy whispered a barely audible, "Yes, Mommy." 

Their mother eased her grip, fingers slipped free before the head lowered, and long fingers slipped into her beautiful white hair, mussing it as her mother buried her head in her hands before them. 

Her mom was crying. 

Heart jumping into her throat, Caroline's eyes widened, jolted to Cassidy in panic. 

Andy. 

Cassidy blinked, gaze shifting wildly from her mom to her, and then without a second thought, just nodded. 

Immediately, she and Cassidy launched forward, tore her mother's hands away from her face and buried herself into her embrace. 

"No, Mommy," Cassidy breathed beside her. 

"Don't cry, Mommy," she whispered, devastated at the very thought. "Don’t. We're gonna find Andy. We promise." 

"We will," Cassidy whispered beside her. 

Blindly, Caroline flailed with her free arm, until she caught hold of Cassidy's arm. Immediately, her sister slid down, and together, their digits tangled, wrapped around their mother and each other. 

\--

The tears were burning in Heather's eyes, and she tried to blink them away, keep her concentration on the woman in front of her, and the gun she held between them. 

"Heather," came the British voice, unsteady and scared. Good. Good. "Heather, please put that gun down. I want to help you." 

"You want to help me?" she whispered raggedly. "You don't want to help me! You just want to bang my dad!" 

"Look, I don't claim to be perfect!" the woman snapped, and after a moment, added, "Though God knows I'd love to be…" 

"Yeah, I don't care," Heather snapped. "This is my only chance." 

Emily's arms were up, staying put. "Your only chance for what?" 

"To keep her." 

"To keep who?" 

"Cassidy." Emily's eyes widened, and Heather managed a shaky smile, nodding unsteadily. "Yeah. You know her. And you know what her mother is like. When she finds out - she already knows… she's never going to let me see her again." She blinked, unable to help herself, and the tears spilled over, sliding down her cheeks silently. "She's the only person who's ever loved me." 

Emily's mouth opened, closed again. "Sweetheart, Miranda is not someone who can bought, not through deeds. Not through actions." 

"Everyone can be bought." 

"That's your father talking." 

"He's my dad!" she snapped, unable to fight it. "I am what he made me." When Emily stepped forward, she launched to her feet, struggling with the safey. "Don't move! I mean it!" 

"Okay." Emily stayed put. "But sweetheart, you need to listen to me. Your father is aware that you're lying. He knows you're planning to betray him." 

The statement was said quietly, and the gun in Heather's hand shook. 

She was suddenly so scared. 

"Is he going to kill me?" 

"No." Heather sucked in her breath, and the gun shook harder. "He's not. Do you know why?" 

Heather kept silent. 

"He loves you." 

"I don't believe you." 

"He was proud of you. He's proud of you no matter who you are and what you do. Even if he's a despicable murderer who deserves to rot, the plain truth is that he loves you." Emily's eyes were dry, her voice was quiet, and she sounded nothing like the screechy woman she had encountered before. Heather was now shivering from all over, and the fucking tears wouldn't stop. 

"You're lying." 

"I'm not," Emily whispered. "I don't lie. I never have. And I've lived my whole life under the belief that you can earn love. You can't, Heather. No matter what you do or how hard you try." 

"STOP!" She squeezed the trigger. 

The shot went wild, skidding over a monitor, the sound so loud she dropped the gun, hands clapping to her ears as she yelped. 

Immediately, arms came around her, holding her, reeling her in. 

Heather, starved for affection, crumpled into Emily's embrace and sobbed.


	12. Into the Rabbithole

_As much as Andy liked to think she didn't have any regrets, the truth was that her spontaneity got her into enough trouble that hindsight seemed to perpetually haunt her, particularly at this stage in her life._

_As to what stage that was, there was no real answer, because it was just getting really really confusing._

_To be Miranda's lover was one thing. She could handle that. She could definitely handle that. She loved handling that. Even if at times her secret affair was incredibly inconvenient, particularly with a well-meaning Lily and Doug throwing every Tom, Dick and Harry in her direction at every opportunity, it was worth it._

_For every fight with Miranda, there also was a quiet memory. The glide of soft lips pushing against hers, the low growl of a woman with sinfully smooth skin and the heavenly smell of expensive body wash and perfume that wafted over her as she deepened her kiss with a possessive sweep of her tongue licking against perfect teeth. The tell-tale thump of a heart beating mutely as sweat-soaked bodies tangled together in that timeless second when they had both just come and were blissed out of their minds._

_That was heaven. And even if the relationship… affair… whatever it was, was filled with doubts and fights and secrets and furtive passionate couplings, at the very least Andy could understand it. She understood an affair._

_It was Miranda's children that muddled it all up for her._

_Her children and their dog, who in the past few months, had deemed Andy 'theirs'. Who called Andy on her cellphone daily, who demanded visits and walks and never expected to be told no._

_Who cc'ed her on their Christmas wish emails to their mother._

_"You do realize that you aren't their older sister or actually related to them," Lily told her once, when she caught Andy outside of Doug's birthday dinner at Spago's trying to calm a hysterical Caroline. "You can say no."_

_"I can't," she told Lily, shrugging helplessly, and went back to trying to explain to Caroline that her life was not over simply because Tiffany from school had managed to get a hold of the new Louis Vuiton shoulder bag before she did._

_Lily crossed her arms, regarded her strangely, and shrugged in resignation. "Just remember," she said, in a tone that made Andy falter, "You put yourself in that situation. You don't fall in love with the kids if you're not sure where you stand with the Mom."_

_Her friend was an artist; she had a keen eye for the subtle. She saw things coming before Andy ever really did, and while she and Lily never discussed what she meant by her statement, Andy had been flabbergasted to realize that night that Lily knew._

_Lily knew more than she did._

_"The girls have asked if you'll join us for Christmas," Miranda told her later that week, breaking Andy out of her thoughts. Seated across from her, Miranda's eyes were on her food, elegant as always, even when seated at Andrea's IKEA dining room table. "We're going to the Hamptons for the holidays."_

_Lifting her chin off her fisted palm, Andy realized she had been off in such a daze that she inadvertently let her foot fall asleep. With a grimace, she tried to stomp out the tingle._

_She hissed when the pain shot up her foot, nearly dropping her fork._

_"Andrea."_

_Miranda was regarding her with the same closed expression she normally employed when broaching a subject that was deemed controversial between them over their pre-sex dinner. The last time she had used that blank frown, they had nearly thrown knives at each other over Clinton versus Obama._

_Exhaling, Andrea's shoulders straightened, and she deliberately placed the fork beside the table. "Are the girls asking or are you asking?"_

_Miranda's mouth tugged in a barely discernable frown, as she too, placed the fork beside her plate and pressed a napkin delicately to her mouth._

_"I wouldn't be opposed to the idea. Obviously." Miranda's eyes lifted, meeting hers in a glare that warned not to press any more. "Or I wouldn't be bringing it up."_

_Christmas with the Priestlys. The four of them. Like a little family. Andy found her mouth tugging into a bittersweet smile. What if she said yes? And they went. Miranda and her girls and their… friend Andy. Their mother's fuck buddy. The girl's … mentor. Whatever the hell she was._

_Too much unspoken. Too much unsaid. Too much Andy wanted that she shouldn't have wanted just yet. Things she was crazy to want, and Lily was right, it was her fault. She put herself in this. She fell in love with the kids and the Mom and there was no level footing._

_And now Miranda - sorry, the GIRLS - wanted them to spend Christmas together?_

_"I don't know if that's such a good idea, Miranda."_

_Miranda's eyes didn't leave hers. She didn't betray one emotion one way or another. It made Andy want to scream. "Fine," came the low voice, and Miranda returned to her dinner._

_Andy's stomach lurched painfully. She was no longer hungry, as she listened to the deliberate clanks of silverware against porcelain. "What I meant was… if I go with you…"_

_"I said 'fine', Andrea," Miranda replied, tone fiercely even as glinting crystal eyes glanced up and caught her own. "That's all."_

_The use of Miranda's signature phrase caused a shudder of anger that was impossible to contain. "No, that's not all, Miranda. What if they catch us?!"_

_The knife stopped clanking. "Pardon?"_

_"It's one thing to sneak around over here and when they're not at the Townhouse, but what are we going to do? Sneak past each other's bedrooms like some Pink Panther farce? What do we say to them? They're not stupid, you know. They know what sex is."_

_The look on Miranda's face could have wilted her two years ago. "Have I given you any authorization to discuss sex with my children?"_

_"No," she spat, feeling overheated and frustrated. "You haven't. But they ask me. Do you know why? Because I see them all the time. Because they call me all the time. Because they want me to take them places-"_

_"I wasn't aware that was such a bother for you."_

_She hated… HATED when Miranda made an assumption over a tendril of the truth._

_"I didn't say that," she hissed, body stiff with unexpected fury. "I love those girls." That's the problem, she ached to finish. "Do you want to tell them?"_

_Miranda blinked, eyeing her like she had lost her brain completely. And maybe she had. "… No."_

_All that admission invited was a stalled, uncomfortable silence._

_Flushed, Andy's eyes broke away from Miranda's and drifted again to her plate. "Okay then," Andy breathed, trying to keep her voice steady even if she felt stupidly devastated over Miranda's very frank answer. "Then again, I don't think it would be a good idea to go with your family to the Hamptons for Christmas."_

_They ate in silence._

_When it came time for passion, Andy attacked Miranda with a roughness she had never employed before. Miranda wasn't allowed to touch her that night. Instead Andy buried her hands and her mouth between Miranda's legs and didn't come up once. Ignored every whimper and every plea for mercy, and when Miranda came with a hoarse shout, Andy let her breathe for only a moment, before she pushed her over, slid on top of her, and with her wet fingers, pushed easily into Miranda's ass._

_Miranda loved that. And she hated it. Ass play was undignified. And it made her come faster than anything._

_Miranda flailed back and clamped onto her, nails digging harshly into her arm, sounding like she was dying. With an arm slung around her shoulders, keeping her tight against her, Andy pushed in deeper. She knew what would happen when it was over._

_Mortified at herself, Miranda would ignore her. Andy would go immediately to the bathroom and wash carefully. When she was done, Miranda would be up and dressed, and ready to go, and it would feel like it was supposed to feel. Just an affair. Just a fuck._

_Andy was toppling over a point of no return, and before that happened, she needed that reminder. She needed it badly._

_But this time, Miranda didn't even give her that._

_Upon returning from the bathroom, Andy discovered her lover asleep, sheets tossed over her haphazardly, white hair tussled and falling all over Andy's pillows, looking like some Grecian goddess. Shoulders slumping, Andy snuck in behind her, and pressed a tender kiss against the naked shoulder._

_Desperately in love and painfully aching for what Miranda had announced was off limits, Andy almost hated her._

\-- 

Andy really really wanted a drink of water. Her throat was parched, and her head was ringing, and it would have been a REALLY awesome time to feel sorry for herself. 

Had she not been so terrified of dying in a tunnel, she would have given in to the feeling. 

Her very own secret agent, the eternally polite and ashen-faced Max, seemed to be no better off. But even with no shoes and a ripped tuxedo, the man appeared eternally grounded. 

On his haunches, he examined a part of the floor, listening with one wet finger in the air. 

"Promising," he informed her, rising to stand and turn toward her. "The markers I have etched into the walls have not resurfaced and I have yet to see our foot prints. That means we're not going in circles. And the draft I'm feeling…" he wiggled his finger at her. "Is still coming toward us." 

"So we're getting somewhere," she breathed, and he smiled kindly. The relief that engulfed her nearly made her knees weak. 

"Well, yes," he admitted, cheery as ever. "But where we are going, I'm afraid, I have no idea." 

"You're so optimistic," she said, but wasn't mad about it. "Do you know the first thing I'm going to do when I get out of here?" Andy whispered as she slung an arm around his shoulder, and nearly staggered, wincing when a rock on the floor cut into her foot. 

"See a doctor, I hope," he grunted, and they kept going. 

"I'm going to the Hamptons for Christmas." 

"That's wonderful. But that doesn't mean we're out of danger," he reminded her, reaching for her as she clutched the wall for support. "We need to do our best to get out of here before Agent 23 finds us. I'm afraid that unless we have some measure of surprise, we'll be completely defenseless." 

"Max, has anyone ever told you that you have an absurd need to state the obvious? And that it's annoying?" 

\--

It was meant to be a day of carnage and retribution. It was meant to be glorious.

The fact that his own daughter had not thought twice about helping out the hostages in his house should not have been as irritating and… annoying as it was. 

It was really pissing him off that he was so bummed out. 

Dwayne Johnson, aka Agent 23, had learned a long time ago that trust was a rare gift that could be applied to no one but himself.

But his own flesh and blood? The kid brought forth from HIS loins? 

Dwayne Johnson had a mother. She had been abandoned by his jack ass father when he was twelve, and Dwayne had been happy. He had been too small. Too puny. Too little to defend himself, even from the bullies at school who stole his lunch money and made fun of the holes in the soles of his shoes. 

How was he supposed to defend his mom, the woman who threw herself on top of him to save him from his dad's harsh blows,the burns of his cigarettes? He couldn't. He tried; still bore the scar that etched down his hairline because of it. So many beatings, and he failed her because he couldn't stop it. 

When his dad finally left, he was relieved, and felt like a coward because of it. 

He fixed that. 

At thirteen, he grew ten inches, and got put on the basketball team. He started to get fed at the cafeteria and then got put on the football team. He went All State. He learned how to bench weights, and he packed on muscle. Packed on pounds. 

And beat on any asshole who thought they could get away with bullying a kid for no damned reason. 

At seventeen, he found his dad. He found the stupid old man working the graveyard shift at a meat packing plant. Lingered in the shadows, breathing in the stench and listening to the cries of dying animals. Followed him to his house and beat him with his bare hands. 

He brought him home to his mother, showed her proudly the blood running down the length of his nose like tears, the broken cheek bones, the black and blue mess of a man so unrecognizable. And she had stared him like he was the fucking monster. 

Told him to get out. Kicked him out. Called him a demented psycho and begged him to leave her alone. 

He wanted to kill her. He didn't. He should have. 

He left her there, with her nearly dead beat up shell of an ex-husband. It was his last memory of his mother, spread over that bastard like she used to cower over him, looking up at him like she was seeing a stranger. Like he was his father. 

The same woman who would have died for him, now refused to take his gift, to look at him with anything but horror. 

He had learned a lesson then. He should have remembered it. 

Family wasn't anything but a word. 

His own fucking daughter… 

And still… the little bitch was SMART. She had figured out the equipment. She had tracked them through the entire operation. Came up with an excuse he could feasibly buy. He would have. He wanted to. 

Fucking kid…

To be betrayed by an ex-girlfriend was one thing. A hit to the ego, sure, but fixable. A new face, a few months of planning, and a few hours of carnage… 

But his own fucking kid… 

Boarding school. He was fucking locking her up for an eternity…

Gritting his teeth, Dwayne eased his way through his tunnels, taking care to keep out of the way of the security cameras that were now documenting his every move. 

Fucking kid. 

Anger rippled over him like a wave, and he felt like he had back when he was seventeen, punched in the stomach and so desperately angry he wanted to kill something. Rip it apart with his bare hands. 

A button hit on the remote he carried in his pocket, and the cameras flitted out. 

Ahead of him, recently disturbed dirt wafted through the air, catching the flickering lights like snowflakes. Footsteps scuffed all along the dirt floor, and breathing quietly through his nose, Dwayne smiled, noting the size, the steps, the shimmy of a trained military gait. 

He had been invaded. Ten men, one female. 

It was just what he wanted. Just what he needed. 

99 had always been blind. She should have seen the minute she got into these tunnels that carrying an army of men with her was the equivalent of sending a homing beacon. 

Manpower meant nothing in cramped quarters. 

She should have known that. 

He kept moving, silently and quietly, turning the corner, eyes on the steps, until he heard the scuffles, the whispered commands. 

With a grin, he stilled, dropped to his knees. From his belt he removed a sphere, and pressed a button. 

As it rolled into the darkness, the whispered wheeze of the smoke drifting from it was the only warning. 

Soon there was wheezing. The coughing. The thuds of man and machinery. 

Clucking his tongue, he sighed. "Idiots." 

In the ensuing silence, he heard it: the click of a safety. 

Head shifting, he turned slowly. 

Behind him, Agent 99 looked as beautiful and deadly as the gun she brandished. 

"You're an idiot," he breathed. "You could have just killed me, instead of giving me a warning." 

Though it was barely visible, 99's lips quirked. 

"What's the fun in that?" she asked, and then pulled the trigger. 

\--

Thanks to sex with this girl's father, and the way the tomboy was clinging to her now, Emily had now been touched more in the past day than she had in the past year. 

The thought made her instinctively uneasy, and yet Emily garnered there must have been some maternal twinge inside of her, however slight that kept her hands around the girl, one arm curled around her shoulder, another threading fingers carefully through the short brown strands cropped on top of the girl's head.

Emily supposed she could have blamed it on the circumstances. Or the fact that the girl who had before seemed so damned hardened now shook so furiously Emily was genuinely afraid she would break. 

Honestly, she preferred to give herself the reason that Dwayne would kill her if he discovered she had made his little girl cry and yet had done nothing. Well, not that he wasn't planning on killing her anyway, but at this point, Emily had graduated to hoping for painless or not at all. 

"All right," she whispered, trying hard to keep her voice steady. "All right then. Come on. Please stop." The last words were said perhaps a little harshly, but the girl had started to leak all over her shirt, and Emily was uncomfortable enough. 

Thankfully, the girl only eased back, stared at her through pitifully despondent orbs. 

Little hands still clutched her, however, and Emily somehow didn't have the heart to remove her completely. "Now," she began, wrinkling her nose when the girl reached between them and picked up her own shirt to wipe at her nose. "Let's begin again. Without the gun or the threats on my life." 

"Oh…" Heather sniffled, pathetic in her remorse. "I'm sorry." 

"Don't apologize," Emily snapped. "I have first hand knowledge of the lengths one can go in the attempt to land in Miranda Priestly's good graces. And for that? You never apologize." 

Heather stared at her, and although Emily didn't think what she had just said had been particularly comforting (only true), the girl actually smiled at her, a broken little tilt of her lips that was even worse than the scowl. 

But… damage control. "Now," she began carefully. "Exactly how much does Miranda Priestly know, and who else does?" 

Heather blanched slightly, and craned her neck. Following her stare, Emily regarded the figures tripping over themselves in the tunnels. Andy and the ever faithful Max. 

"Holy shit," Heather blinked, and eyed the moving dots on the blue print. "He's actually getting them out. He's figured out the maze." 

And then the feed went fuzzy… blanked out. 

"Compliments of your father, I imagine," Emily sighed, ignoring the startled face of the child. Reaching up to massage into her tight muscles bunching at her neck, she scowled. "I told you he was on to you. Heather, other than Max and Andy, who is in there?" 

"This government agent," Heather admitted hoarsely. "I let them into the tunnels. And I told them about you and Dad." 

Emily sucked in her breath, eyes closing. God-dammit. 

"Well then," she whispered, taking that in. "Death is beginning to look like a pleasurable alternative to what awaits me should Miranda Priestly get a hold of me." 

"Sorry." 

"I already told you not to apologize," Emily snapped, and pushed the girl back to shoulder length, inspecting her carefully. The urge to panic was welling up deep inside of her, and she could have easily given in to it. She wanted to, badly. It was the state of things for Emily. Neurotic and insane and dedicated to her job, she enjoyed very much to have a good freak out. Up until now, it had been her only real release. 

Up until now, Emily's world had only ever existed of Miranda. 

Her lips quirked bitterly. 

And Miranda had never looked twice. 

Damage control. 

"Allright," she began, voice rough. "Give me the cell phone." When Heather regarded her suspiciously, Emily rolled her eyes in annoyance. "I'm going to help you," she enunciated, brow arching impatiently. "It's time to save our own skins, and as much as I do fear your father, the worst _he_ can do is kill me." 

Heather blinked, but handed the phone over. "What would Miranda do?" 

"I'd tell you," Emily said, "But I think you've been traumatized quite enough for one day." She dialed numbers that were memorized years ago, and when a cool, careful voice picked up, Emily did the best she could not to wither. "Miranda," she began, after a moment taken to gather her courage. "This is Emily. Andy and Max are nearing the edge of the tunnels, and we need someone to fish them out." 

\--

He jerked even as she squeezed the trigger, just like she knew he would. 

It was fast, almost too fast, but she followed the movement instinctively, and got what she was aiming for. 

The gun in his hand dropped with a dull thud to the ground. He twisted with a pained grunt, and then did the only thing he could: plowed into her with the force of a line backer. 

He was heavy, and hard, like he had always been, large, bloody fingers veering toward her throat as he lunged. 

They slammed into the wall, two more shots skidding off the walls before she twisted and pressed her elbow between them, allowing the limb to take the brunt of the damage when he brought up a hard knee toward her stomach. 

Inches away from her, the unfamiliar of 23 gleamed white teeth at her. "You've gotten better." 

"You've gotten lazy," she responded, and shoved the gun between them, wrist wrenching as she buried it into the hard muscles of his stomach. 

He was already moving, twisting away from her before she could squeeze off a shot. 

And then they were standing no less than three feet apart. The perfect distance. Not too far. Not too close.

Her heart beat wildly, and she struggled to contain her breath. 

"Where's Max." 

In the dimly lit tunnel, she could barely make out the smirk. "You really love that loser, don't you?" 

There was no time. And she was out of patience. 

The next shot chipped him off his shoulder, spouting blood in a very satisfying way as he swiveled, landed against the wall. 

"Where's Max?" she asked again. 

The pain had begun to seep into his eyes, and it unnerved her. Countless missions with Agent 23, he had never lost his cool. He had never been less than the perfect agent. 

Their last mission, it had been her. She had been the one who had lost it. She had been the one who had blown it. 

And now, over a year later, and here they were. His little endgame, with the faces of strangers and the bodies of lovers, and she wanted to be staring into his old face. 

She wanted to look at him and recognize him for the man he was. To put a bullet into the man she remembered would be the perfect way to bury the past. 

But this man… his eyes were wild. He was laughing maniacally. 

"You never wanted kids, did you?" he breathed, and a shiver of revulsion floated up her spine so fast and so unexpectedly she pulled the trigger again, burying a bullet into his thigh. 

"Where's Max?" she asked, voice rough. 

He stared at her, with that look she had never seen before, from the face she did not recognize. 

"Oh come on," he whispered, for her ears only. "You know you'd have to kill me first." 99 swallowed. "You got to my little girl," he said, nearly growled it. "You turned my little girl." 

She gave him nothing. 

"My little girl," he continued, and began to rise unsteadily to his feet, bleeding, tripping. "The only person who ever really loved me. You took that away from me the second you tore my face away. Did you know that?" 

She wouldn't listen to him. Not after all this. Not now. There was no guilt in her actions. "If you don't tell me where Max and Andy are," she continued, voice steady, unwavering, "I'll make her an orphan."

The smile faded. The glare hardened. He lunged. 

The gun shot rang out, exploding in the darkness. 

\-- 

Gunshots burst like firecrackers around them, echoing down the corridors with such deafening irregularity it was impossible to tell where they came from. 

Huddled together with Andy, Max tried hard to think. 

To go forward, to go back… neither were options anymore. 

In the darkness. Without weapons. Without orientation. Bleeding and with a concussion…

"Max," Andy whispered, and he shushed her, ignoring her widening eyes when he heard the sound of steps inching through the darkness toward them. 

"Hold still," he whispered. "Someone's coming." 

Terrified, Andy stayed put, listening to reason for once. Thankful, Max carefully got to his feet, and moved into a fighter's stance. 

He would not think of 99. He couldn't afford to. 

Instead he would honor her by defending her doppelganger with his dying breath. Plucking up the scattered embers of his courage, Max fisted his palms and spoke loudly into the darkness. 

"I warn you!" he began, hearing the echoes of his voice bounce off the walls. "I'm not entirely defenseless without a gun!" 

The steps did not falter. They kept coming. Rhythmic. Timed. Perfect. 

Almost like… Almost like… 

In the darkness, the figure began to take shape the closer it came to the light. When it stepped under a flickering lamp, Max nearly stopped breathing altogether. 

"Hymie?!"


	13. Out of the Woodwork

_If everybody minded their own business, the world would go around a great deal faster than it does._ \- Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll

\--  
 _David Priestly was by far a better father than he had ever been a husband._

_The definition of a rake, with curly brown locks that were now peppered with gray, he had a Peter Pan complex that Miranda (who had been foolish at one point, but never again) thought he would eventually grow out of._

_She had been arrogant enough, in her youth, to believe that she could change anyone simply because she had changed herself._

_David had been her first public misstep. But she did not consider him a failure._

_Without David, the children would not exist._

_That simple knowledge allowed them both to push past bitterness to resignation, and beyond that, even a speckle of friendship between the elusive Dragon Lady and the Playboy Boy Child who still played with videogames and had somehow managed to make a career out of it._

_This was particularly important, because as devoted as David was to his children, he had the attention span of a newt, and Miranda had long since resigned herself to acting as his personal calendar, reminding him of dates and times and everything a normal parent would make a note of and David simply forgot._

_His saving grace? He loved his children, even if he didn't see them as often as his visitation rights dictated._

_"That is the ugliest dog I've ever seen," he stated matter-of-factly, one evening while he waited in her study for the children upstairs to finish their packing._

_He was speaking, of course, about Heathcliff. The mangy mutt had taken to following Miranda wherever she went, and although initially Miranda had found the companionship mildly irritating, she had come to expect it._

_The dog's offending appearance had become so commonplace to Miranda she found herself momentarily offended by David's observation. She looked at Heathcliff, with his three legs and his offending patches of clashing colors all over his glossy coat, and merely pressed her lips together in response, coming forward with list folded over._

_"The girls' new cellphone numbers," she told him flippantly. "Have whatever eighteen year old you're dating at the moment program them into your phone, and remember they need to be back by six pm tomorrow. No later. And no earlier," she added, and offered no explanation when David shot her a questioning glance._

_"Of course, your highness." He grabbed the list and thrust it unceremoniously into his pocket. At the sound of the careless crinkle, Miranda mentally sighed and resigned herself to having Beth call him tomorrow with the same information. "So who is this Andy person I keep hearing about?"_

_The name of her secret lover coming off her ex-husband's lips was so unexpected Miranda felt a sudden chill. She paused mid-way back to her desk, and carefully turned a careful glare toward the man._

_But David seemed only happily oblivious, having garnered the courage to reach down and pat Heathcliff tentatively on the forehead and jumping back when the dog raised his muzzle to sniff curiously at his fingers._

_"Pardon?" she asked._

_He glanced up. "Andy." The corners of his eyes crinkled with his handsome smile. "The girls don't shut up about her. 'Andy this.' 'Andy that.' If I didn't know better, I'd think they had started to compete for her attention. What's the deal?"_

_Determined to ignore the paranoid tightening in her chest, Miranda appeared nothing but blissfully unaffected and mildly irritated. "She's simply an ex-assistant who, through an unusual set of circumstances, has fallen into a relationship of sorts with the children. I encourage it."_

_"You do."_

_"Indeed," Miranda said dryly. "They need someone to look up to that is relatable, and let's face it, David, your last girlfriend cited Paris Hilton's 'career' as a blueprint 'business plan'."_

_"Hey, don't knock Kim!" he protested, but had an engaging smile on his face. "She was on Dancing With the Stars!" Miranda saw no reason to even attempt to justify the response, and went back to sorting through her desk, an unspoken indication that the conversation was over._

_David, however, had never been big on hints. "So I hear she's gorgeous."_

_Her body flushed cold. Her eyes snapped up, flashed dangerously. "No. Absolutely not."_

_The tone. The stance. The look in her eyes; it all made it very clear._

_David actually paled at the stare, and offered a helpless weak chuckle in response. "You're always saying that I need to date better women! I was just thinking if this one was such a gem-"_

_No._

_"David, if you so much as drool in Andrea's direction I will take those golf clubs you're so very fond of and jam them up your-"_

_"We're ready!"_

_Caroline's entrance was, as always, dramatic, and despite the fact that she was flushed and so furious she was nearly shaking, Miranda's scowl moved quickly into a smile for her children._

_"Girls," she said, and came forward to drop a gender kiss on the identical freckled foreheads. "You will behave yourselves."_

_"Duh, Mom!" Cassidy grumbled, dragging along her obscenely expensive overnight bag in such a half hazard manner Miranda nearly winced._

_She glanced up and met her still slightly pale ex-husband's stare. "David? Enjoy your time with the girls."_

_It was no small satisfaction when his Adam's Apple visible bobbed in a gulp. "Always a pleasure, your highness.… nice dog!" Shaking his head, he jetted fast for the door._

_Suddenly desperate to have him gone, Miranda made a point to keep up, hands on the girl's shoulders. He reached the door, opened it, and by some unfortunate coincidence, managed to catch Andrea on the steps, hand up, clearly ready to knock._

_"Oh!" Miranda exhaled, eyes narrowing at the sight of the inconveniently early woman. She looked, Miranda noted with some irritation, absolutely gorgeous. The red of her scarf set off her skin tone beautifully, and those dark brown eyes were never more enchanting than Andrea Sachs at her most impetuous and embarrassed. "I’m so sorry! I didn't mean to…"_

_"Andy?" Cassidy sounded suspicious. "What are you doing here?"_

_Andy's wide-eyed gaze shot to her. Grumpily, Miranda only arched her brow._

_"I… I… knew you were going to meet your dad, and remembered what you said about the dogs needing to be walked, and so… I came over to do that," Andy finished, and despite the urge to get genuinely angry with Andrea for managing to arrive before her girls had left, Miranda glanced at the pleased looks on the faces of her girls, and found herself suppressing a smirk. And then Andrea had to ruin that by smiling beautifully at David Priestly and extending a slender hand. "You must be David! I'm Andy."_

_For his part, David was staring like a gob-smacked idiot._

_"They were just leaving," Miranda snapped, as David took her lover's hand and squeezed it warmly._

_"Yeah, Dad, let's go," Caroline said, and pushed past Andy and toward the stairs. "Andy! Use the white leash for Heathcliff, okay? And remember to walk him for at least thirty minutes."_

_"Of course, Caroline."_

_"Andy, it really was a pleasure," David said, hormones winning over his survival instinct. "I always like to know who my daughter considers friends, maybe one day you and I could-"_

_"DAD!" Miranda blinked when Cassidy took it upon herself to shove her father hard on the ass with both hands, nearly jolting him down the porch steps. "Don't be gross! You can't hit on Andy!"_

_"Eww, Dad!" Caroline yelled from the street._

_He flushed, opened his mouth to respond, and then was yanked away by Cassidy, who now had a death grip on his hand and dragged him away from the door._

_Miranda's lips came together in a severe purse as Andrea stepped carefully inside and locked the door behind her._

_Settling gamely against the door, Andrea eyed her from across the hallway. "I'm sorry," she said immediately. "But he was late."_

_"You were early," Miranda corrected, a harsh tone snapping off the edge of the word. "Obscenely early."_

_But Andrea had been proving herself more immune than she used to be to Miranda's harsh inflections._

_The little scamp actually smiled. "Maybe I couldn't wait to see you." Her lowered, husky tone, was enough to do it: send a heated flush through Miranda's body and a jolt of wetness between her legs._

_But she would not be deterred. "You will NOT date David."_

_"… Okay."_

_"I mean it," she snapped, when Andrea's brows furrowed, obviously befuddled. "He will call you for coffee under some silly pretense, and then he will transform it into a date. You will NOT see him again, unless I am present."_

_The infuriating woman was actually amused. "Miranda, are you listening to yourself? Why on earth would I date your ex-husband when I'm sleeping with you?"_

_Put in that context, Miranda was not sure she had an answer. "See that you don't." The silence that fell between them seemed thick; vivid. Andrea eyed her with a scrutiny that she found distinctly unnerving. "What is it?" she demanded._

_"Come here," Andrea ordered softly._

_Miranda, who took demands from no one, felt her insides quiver and her body throb with need. Intoxicated, besotted, and inexplicably thrilled that Andrea still wanted her so desperately, she obeyed._

\--

The first image of Andrea fed to them through the eyes of a cyborg-like robot, manipulated by her very own children had affected Miranda so deeply she discovered herself nearly numb with relief. 

Miranda was not the type to sit still and do nothing. It was not in her nature to be helpless. 

And yet there was nothing she could do, seated on the bench in this horrid mobile unit in the alley behind a house of a mad man, with her daughter's cell phone to her ear, watching as two bodyguard agents who had yet to say a word to her sat side by side with her children, watching as her beautiful Caroline manipulated the controls.

This entire experience… 

It seemed a mimic of her entire relationship with Andy up unto this point. Relying on Andy herself and the actions of others, Miranda had yet to take a direct step forward to wind the girl closer to her. 

To keep her. 

In doing so, she realized how easy it would be to lose her. 

The ramifications of such a conclusion to this farce was so devastating that Miranda had not even entertained the thought since the moment Andrea had been whisked away at the Plaza. There were no 'if's. Only 'when's, and now that that 'when' was so very close to coming, Miranda was unable to stop the torrent of thoughts and emotions that told her how near she was to being irreparably broken. 

Because of Andrea Sachs. 

"They're coming!" Cassidy said, scrambling off the bench beside her sister and weaving under the protesting agent, jerking open the back door of the mobile unit.

"Wait!" Caroline called, jolting up and nearly dropping the remote in her haste to get to her sister. "Wait for me." 

The agents were fast, but the children were quicker. 

"Damn kids!" cried the paunchy one named Larabee, and when her eyebrow shot up, he flushed a deep red. "They're great," he amended

"Miranda." Emily's voice floated into her thoughts, and the intrusion was most unwelcome. 

"What is it, Emily?" she asked, head pounding and barely breathing. 

"Heather had no part in what her father did." 

The statement was oddly out of place, and had Miranda been in any mood to be charitable, she would have considered that this was self-serving Emily, and the fact that the woman was using any leverage she had for Andrea's escape for something other than saving her own skin was remarkable indeed. 

But Miranda was exhausted, and by no means a perfect woman and not even a kind one, she wanted nothing else but to end the conversation and see Andrea. 

"Emily," she began, even and callous. "At this point in time, details of this farce do not interest me. Speak to an agent, and get that girl out, but this association has come to an end. Do you understand that?" 

There was a quiet pause, a careful, audible breath. "Of course I do, Miranda." 

She didn't bother with a goodbye. Instead, she handed off the phone to the remaining agent and followed her girls into the twilight, where she laid witness to a miraculous sight indeed. 

From an opening hidden underneath a carpet of brush and weeds, emerged a man in a dirty and ripped tuxedo in socks, and crusted dry blood caking the side of his face. Directly behind him was a robot named HYMIE, impeccably dressed and with a smile on his face. In his arms, dirty, bruised, and in an abused evening dress that was now in tatters, was Andrea. 

Alive. And real. 

The world stopped turning. 

She could not move. 

Miranda was paralyzed, frozen in place, and yet she could not stop looking. 

A lifetime in fashion had given Miranda the tools and the eyes to distinguish faux from real, and this was real. 

Her Andrea, being set down gently on the cement. 

Miranda was so ensconced in feeling; she could do nothing when her children shrieked. Could only hear the crash of the expensive remote that controlled the robot as it slipped from Caroline's fingers, and watch with a closed throat and an impossibly tight chest as Hymie stuttered from the confusion and jerked his fist back, accidentally catching the poor abused Agent 86 in the gut. 

Her girls, in their tunnel vision, barely noticed. Even as Andrea leaned over the agent who had saved her life, she was plowed into by twin redheaded girls, who clutched onto her with a fierceness that indicated that they would never let go. 

Their silent pledge to their Andrea. 

"We need to get them away from the house," an agent informed her, and unable to speak, Miranda only nodded shortly. 

Her limbs came back to her, carried her closer and closer, until Andrea's tear-streaked gaze finally caught her.

Miranda still could not speak. Fear did not dictate her emotions, but at this moment, she found herself helpless. For all of Miranda's capabilities, she did not understand how to handle THIS. 

Andrea stared at her, alive and beautiful and wanting something so openly in her gaze that Miranda would never truly be sure how to give.

Oh, but she wanted to. 

"You look horrible." Andrea's observation was frank. Her voice was hoarse. She sounded awful. 

And so very like herself, Miranda found herself retorting quite in character, "You were kidnapped and nearly killed, how exactly am I supposed to look?" 

It was Andrea's resulting smile that undid her. Helplessly, she reached out with her hand, and when a palm fitted against hers so perfectly, Miranda found her strength. 

One step forward, one pull, and Andrea was in her arms, smelling of blood and dirt and every horrible thing that had overtaken them for one abysmal day. 

Andrea: warm and alive and against her, short breaths panting against her collar, and arms winding over her shoulders, holding her so tightly. 

Miranda managed no audible declarations of love. No sweeping orchestras played in the wake of this reunion. 

The declaration had been made. The answer had been given. 

All it had taken was a step forward, and an outstretched arm, and in those two simple actions, Andrea was hers. 

Her eyes opened, and she witnessed her children, fingers tangled in each other's grip, staring at the scene, unsure about their place. 

In this, Miranda was not entirely useless. 

With a delicate strength, she loosened her hold on Andrea, and when the other woman looked at her, simply stared at her children. She opened the embrace with an outstretched hand and the quirk of her finger. 

"Girls," she called, the word barely an audible croak in her emotion. 

The quirk of undeniable happiness on Andrea's tired, smudged lips was lifted into a smile when the girls plowed into their arms. 

Miranda's entire line of work defined beauty by convention. 

And yet, in Miranda's mind, there had never been a more beautiful moment than that of a family huddled together in an alley. 

\--

In a security room, Heather felt small. She felt like a stupid kid, huddled into her father's massive chair, watching beseechingly as Emily somber expression shifted into a barely there smile as she shut the phone. 

"They're out," she informed her flatly. "They're safe." The older woman tossed her phone against the desk, and followed its lead, leaning against the desk and folding her arms across her chest, gaze drifting to the floor. 

Heather felt weak. Dumb. She was itching some place she couldn't scratch, and her restless legs twitched of their own volition, as she shifted in her seat and scratched hard at her hair, digging her nails into her scalp. 

"What about my Dad?" 

The computer had given her nothing. She had heard nothing, and Heather, who had long lived for the moment where she had to answer to nothing and nobody, now felt utterly lost. 

Her voice sounded so small. "What do we do?" 

Emily glanced up at her, and in her gaze was a hardness that flashed liked sparks. "What do I look like, your own personal savior? I have no idea, Heather. Did you not think this through when you decided to betray your own father and rat him out to the government agent?" 

The tears slid down her cheeks before she could stop them and Heather issued a disgusted snort, stung and furious about it. 

"Fuck you," she spat, and dug her face into her knees. 

Above the pounding of blood rushing through her ears, Heather heard a sigh, the click of Emily's severe, crazily high heels that came continually closer. 

"Stop crying." The venom was gone from Emily's voice, but Heather only shuddered, burying herself deeper into her self-made cocoon, sniffling into the crook of her elbow. "Stop. Heather… I don't know what to do. At the moment, I'm fucked. From every orifice. From every angle. I'm hardly one to play follow-the-leader." 

A barely noticeable whisper of noise, the sudden flush of air, and as Heather lifted her head, she discovered a man who looked like her father, but soaked in blood, pale and stumbling-

"-Dad!" Her heart pounded, her limbs jerked, and she was out of her seat even as he fell into Emily's arms. Being so skinny, Emily was no match for the heavier build of her dad, and she stumbled with the weight of him, trying in vain to hold him upright. 

Heather moved, ready to help, when Emily cried, "Heather, NO!" 

Heather froze, mouth open, eyes stinging and wet. 

Her father, in a movement fast as lightning, had jerked Emily hard against him, and was now holding a glinting knife against her throat. Emily's freckled face looked pale white, and she struggled against the faltering grip of her bleeding father, who gritted bared teeth and pressed the blade of the knife deeper against the milky white throat. 

"You helped her?!" he spat, and Heather sucked in a sob. Emily stared at her. 

"Heather, get out." Emily's voice was soft, even. "Now, Heather." 

"You're trying to take her from me?!" 

"I'm trying to save her! She's a child!" 

The blade flashed, and an etch of blood leaked in tear-shaped droplets at Emily's throat. "You think I'd kill her?! You think I'd kill my own little girl!?" 

"Dad! NO!" she couldn't help herself. She launched at him, tore helplessly at his hands. "Dad, please!" 

"HEATHER." 

He shoved her away so hard she crashed against the machines, pain jolting up her spine, and then she saw it. The gun she had dropped. When she had been so useless… 

Dropping to the floor, she scrambled for it. 

"Heather, no!" 

And then she had it. But she couldn't stop shaking. She couldn't aim it. Her tears were blurring, and she was now panting, the shouts around her and yet not processing. 

"Can't you see what you're doing to her?! STOP. STOP. You're her father!" 

Gripping the gun with both hands, she struggled to point it at her father. But the tears made ner nearly blind, and she was so afraid she would hit Emily… 

"Put it down. Honey, put it down." Her father. 

She blinked, wiped fiercely at her eyes; tried to see beyond the stinging. 

This man, with his strange face and his blood soaked hand, was looking at her, an expression on her face she had only ever seen on one man: her father. 

"Dad?" she whispered, voice cracking, gun wavering. 

The struggling pair froze, and it was then she realized that her father was no longer holding the knife to Emily. The arm had gone from holding Emily to him to clutching her for support, and he was staring at her with that face… a face she finally recognized. 

"Heather," he managed, and slipped. Heather jerked forward, caught his other side, tried to keep him up. 

"Dad!" she whispered, straining as she tried to keep him up. "Hold on!" 

"He's fading," Emily told her, slender hand pressed against a seeping wound on his side. "We need to get him to a hospital- Do you know another way out?" 

"The only way he's leaving is in handcuffs." The voice was familiar. She had heard it before. On a phone. 

Instinct made her choice for her. She lifted the gun at the intruder, the woman with the face like Andy Sachs. "NO!" she snarled. "No, you're not taking him." 

Agent 99 looked so calm. So deadly. So unnervingly scary as she stood in the open doorway, gun pointed straight at her. "I suggest someone take the gun away from the little girl. Please." 

"Heather?" Emily's voice was tight. "Put that down. Not everything is solved with a gun." Heather shook her head violently. 

"NO!" she shouted hoarsely. "I just got him back! She can't have him!" 

"Someone take the gun away from the little girl before I have to do it," said the other woman, and Heather HATED her. 

But before she could press the trigger, before she could do anything, a large hand snapped down on hers, jerking the gun from her wrist with a wrenching pain, and tossing it on the floor. 

"Leave her out of it." It was her father. He sounded so weak and sad, and Heather only clutched tighter. "I'll go with you. Okay? Just leave my kid alone. Don't touch my kid." 

And then his knees buckled, and his head rolled back, and Heather screamed. 

\--

Maxwell Smart had shoes. 

Life was full of simple pleasures, and in the complication of his work, Max found the real joy came in something simple as being able to wiggle his toes inside clean socks and a good pair of shoes protecting his feet. 

Something simple as fulfilling a promise, and watching in satisfied silence (despite aching all over), as a family who had been torn apart, was reunited. 

Of course, there were complications. This was no ordinary family. This was Miranda Priestly, her children, her lesbian lover. This was Andy Sachs, who wore 99's face. 

99, who was alive, but at the moment unseen. 

And so, because he had a concussion, and a strict warning to wait for the paramedics that would whisk him to CONTROL's finest outsourced doctors, he concentrated on the simple luxury of shoes. 

Drugged Agents stumbled out of the house, and behind them, a stretcher came out with the pale unfamiliar face of their former Agent 23, oxygen mask fitted over his face as additional agents pointed guns at him, ready to shoot if the unconscious beast so much as twitched. 

Behind him, in a signature white shirt and an expression that could only ever belong to her, was his very own 99. 

Heart trembling within him, he placed his shoes-shod feet onto the floor and carefully began to move, despite the ringing in his head. 

She looked tired, older than she ever did, but Max had never seen anything more beautiful than 99's simple smile when she discovered him. 

They had endured too many close calls to count, but Max believed in simple pleasures, and his heart burst with feeling when she picked up her face and at a flat run, launched into his arms and his lips. 

Her passionate kiss: fierce and real and warm, was so much better than finally wearing shoes. 

He plundered her lips, and broke away only when his felt his lungs ache with protest, to look into glistening eyes and tenderly caress a smudged cheek. 

"I heard gunshots," he explained, clutching her tight. "I thought… I don't want to say it." 

Her eyes searched his carefully, and then the smile widened. "Missed it by that much." 

\-- 

In the midst of these reunions, Emily did not stand alone. Clutching her hand with a death grip she would have found unnerving under any other circumstances, was a teenage girl with a father near death and a mother missing. 

Emily did not know what would become of her, but strangely enough, that did not concern her nearly as much as what would become of Heather and her father. 

She squeezed hard on the girl's hand, and moved when the agents told her to, following the pale Dwayne toward an unmarked van. 

As they walked, she passed Agent 99 and Maxwell Smart, lost in each other. 

Just ahead of them was a regal woman, with whom Emily had worked with for years, whom Emily did not recognize. 

This Miranda Priestly smiled, staring into the face of Andy Sachs with an expression that could only be love. Their two children sat with them, and Emily swallowed, glanced down to Heather, to see she was looking as well.

Cassidy Priestly was looking back. 

In between them was a distance that Emily was not sure either could ever cross. Cassidy attempted it. She tried to get to her feet, tried to meet Heather halfway, but true to form, Miranda Priestly caught hold of her and kept her in place. 

Done and decided then. Heather's worst nightmare come true. 

Curling an arm around the stricken girl, Emily slid an arm around those thin shoulders and whispered gently, "I'll make sure you see her later. For the moment, you've got your own father to attend to." 

Without speaking, and an agonized, lost expression on the beautiful face, Heather stared at her for only a moment, before she nodded carefully, and rested her head on Emily's shoulder. 

Together, they walked away, toward Dwayne Johnson.


	14. Mirror, Mirror

_I wonder if I've been changed in the night? Let me think. Was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is 'Who in the world am I?'_  
\- Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll  
__  
 _Things seldom worked out the way they were supposed to._

_Had her life followed the predetermined script meant for her, she would have been finishing law school now, prepping to take the bar, and hopefully managing a flurry of offers from established firms._

_Of course, that hadn't happened. Instead, Andy Sachs was a reporter eeking by on a wage that would have been decent in any city but New York. She had a frustrating boss (which was odd, because she would have thought that after Miranda Priestly, any boss would have been a breeze, and yet THIS one annoyed her in more ways than she could count), expensive taste in clothes (thanks, again, to her time with Miranda), and a life that revolved around her job and not much else._

_Doing what she loved, she had thought would be satisfying - the happy ending to her soul searching adventure that had resulted in her climatic run from the Dragon Lady._

_Andy had vowed to run from Miranda and never look back, and yet here they were again, by some cosmic interference, in the same plush veterinarian waiting room._

_Andy stunk like wet dog._

_They were alone now. Miranda's children, twin-redheaded little girls who were now two inches taller than she remembered had both fallen asleep in their chairs, slumped over their mother in such a comfortable way it was almost surreal. And it was those energetic little brats who liked to do everything they could to get Andy in trouble (until she got them the Harry Potter book at least), who had been responsible for Miranda still sitting here in the first place._

_Clammy hands wringing together, Andy glanced up, too miserable and chilly to feel any sort of shame as she glanced up and regarded the observant glare of one Miranda Priestly. The woman, impeccably dressed as usual, still wore her hair in that signature coiff. She still looked beautiful._

_Andy found it hard to look away._

_"Thank you," she found herself saying, an awkward attempt to fill the silence. "I honestly don't know what I would have done-"_

_The perfectly lined eyebrow rose so high on Miranda's forehead it nearly disappeared into her hairline. "You would have done what you should have done," she answered sharply. "Put that dog out of its misery and saved me a few thousand."_

_Well, she had never accused Miranda of being sentimental._

_"Probably," she acknowledged._

_Miranda's lips pursed together severely. "And you can thank my children. Stepping in was their decision, not mine."_

_Maybe, but Miranda still handed over the card. Pushing down a sigh, Andy nodded grimly and closed her eyes, rubbing her fingers against her forehead, feeling the abused muscles on her back stiffen with complaint._

_The door opened, and the veterinarian, dressed in surgical scrubs and with a tired grin on his face, emerged. "Ms. Priestly?"_

_"Andrea." Fingers lowering, Andrea glanced up. Miranda was nudging her children, waking them up and getting to her feet, slinging her purse back on her shoulder. "I assume you still remember my cell phone number?"_

_As if she could forget it. That thing had been buried so deeply into her subconscious Andy had accidentally caught herself dialing it three times in the past month._

_Miranda Priestly stared at her, noted her small nod, and gave an assured one back. "Then after this visit, my association with this animal ends. You will call Beth with your updated contact information so I can alert you when to pick it up."_

_Not wanting to even think about what she would do with a dog when her apartment didn't allow dogs, and where on earth she could find a rescue organization that would take an ugly dog with a shattered leg and who knew what else wrong with it, she just nodded tiredly._

_"Very well." Once again, Miranda stared at her, the look on her face unreadable._

_Andy was too tired to play any guessing games as to what the woman was thinking. She wasn't paid to do that. Not anymore._

_And Miranda had made herself quite clear. This had been an unfortunate meeting. She had been quite happy to move along and pretend Andrea didn't exist, but children weren't mind readers, and now here they were. And here they would end again._

_The girls followed sleepily as their Mother approached the doctor, and it was only when they all stared at her expectantly._

_"What?" she asked._

_The little redhead she thought was Caroline rolled her eyes in the most obnoxious way possible, and came forward, grabbing hold of her and dragging her out of the seat._

_"Come on!" she said, and moved for Miranda and the vet. "What are you waiting for?"_

_One glance at Miranda revealed the older woman unexpectedly surprised at the twins' assumption that she was tagging along, but she didn't argue. Instead, she flashed a resigned look of annoyance, reminiscent of a look Miranda had been fond of giving her once upon a time, and the look was so familiar Andy found herself managing a bittersweet smile._

_If Miranda was affronted by Andy's amusement, she did not let on. Then again, Andy suspected that Miranda already knew that life seldom worked out the way it was supposed to._

\-- 

Discovering what had occurred in the outside world during the period in which she had spent most of her time unconscious and kidnapped left Andy Sachs feeling a bit like Rip Van Winkle. 

In a blink of an eye, her entire world had changed. 

It had happened without warning, and the events, as they occurred, had been completely out of her hands. 

And it wasn’t just one thing: one secret or one change. No, it was everything. It seemed like everything, anyway. 

It was easier before... with Miranda. With the girls. Andy had been so caught up in her relief, in actually FEELING, that there was nothing but the pure joy at the feel of Miranda clutched against her, the texture of beautiful white hair and the feel of soft skin… it never occurred to her to think beyond that. 

Until the first unexpected paparazzi flash, tipped off from a spectator neighbor, that had them pushed into a van and secreted away. 

Alone for the first time since she had been brought to what she was told was the secret headquarters of an Anti-Terrorism government agency that was supposedly dismantled in the sixties, Andy Sachs discovered herself in a curious state of denial. 

As long as she stayed in this chair, as long as she didn't MOVE, then perhaps she could maybe put off attempting to figure this out. At least for the moment. 

It seemed unreal - only an unrealistic set of impossible hijinks could cause all this to happen, because not only was her relationship with Miranda no longer their own private secret, but it had become overnight tabloid fodder for the world, thanks to a tango with a woman who was NOT her, but wore her face. 

She was tired enough to think to herself that if she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, she could fool herself for even a moment that this had all been some sort of hilarious dream, like the Alice in Wonderland book Maxwell Smart was so fond of. 

But there were tells that spoke the truth: the tenderness of her foot, gashes stitched together and bandaged. The discolored blotch of blue and yellow on her jaw courtesy of a hysterical Emily. The warmth and comfort of government issue black pants and button down shirt, with the word CONTROL etched on them. 

And there were the magazines that she had requested and received: with the pictures splashed over them of Miranda, looking stunning and gorgeous, ducking into her waiting car with what appeared to be Andy... but wasn't. 

Every time she tried to think about the very idea that there was another woman out there... a living breathing woman with her face... that was right about where her mind short-circuited. 

The door to the small office clicked open, and when Andy glanced up, she felt breathless; sucker punched.

Andy Sachs had never looked that beautiful. She was sure of that. Sure, this woman had her face... but this wasn’t her. Not the expensively tailored suit, not the glossy black hair, not the severe quirk of the eyebrow as the two doppelgangers found themselves alone together for the first time. 

"Hi," Agent 99 said, and Andy didn't care about seeming rude when she just stared. The other woman clicked the door shut behind her, hesitating as she tapped at the folder she held in her hands with fingernails that were longer than Andy's, manicured and polished to perfection. "We didn't get properly introduced before. I'm Agent 99." 

The woman with her face. 

Too overwhelmed to say anything, Andy offered a choked nod, gnawing on her lower lip as her eyes followed the other woman to the other side of the desk, watching as this agent pulled out her chair and tossed her a hesitant, barely there smile. 

"I hope you don't mind that I asked to do this alone," said the other woman, in her own voice, and was that necessary? Did they have to give her her own vocal chords too? "I know this is weird... enough...If Ms. Priestly were here... I don't know if it would be manageable." 

The trace of irritation hidden in the voice was impossible to mask, and exhausted, it still brought a ghost of a smile to Andy's face. 

"Miranda Priestly? Difficult?" her voice was surprisingly steady. "That's preposterous. I don't know where you're getting your information." 

The other woman smiled back. "I spent some time with her. I'm going to be honest, I don't know how you managed to last as her assistant for as long as you did. She's... particular." 

Andy wasn't sure if this was small talk or if Agent 99 was just venting. Either way, she was grateful for it. Gave her time to process. 

"You have to know what she likes," she answered. "Once you do that, it's pretty easy to figure it out." 

Agent 99 studied her, file still in her hands. "I guess you would be the expert." 

Andy's fingers tangled together in her lap as they lapsed into silence, and suddenly, she found herself shaking her head, laughing softly. 

"What is it?" 

Reaching up to wipe at her eyes gently, Andy smoothed her hair back and regarded the other woman. "Just something Caroline once told me," she admitted. "She told me I would never know what it was like to have a twin. Though to be honest, I think they're all crazy. You don't even look that much like me."

"Oh yeah?" 

"Your hair is longer," she noted. "And you're... a bit more..." Andy's eyes floated to the woman's body, curvy in places Andy felt lacking. 

"If you say fatter I'm going to smack you." 

"I was going to say athletic..." she said quickly."And, I hope it doesn't come off as narcissist, but I don’t think I've ever looked as beautiful as you do." 

Agent 99's resulting smile was almost painful, and it caused Andy's own to falter. The agent hesitated, before she dropped the folder onto the desk with a dull clap, and with it, all professional pretense. 

"Look, Andy..." Agent 99 sucked in her breath, battling with her words. "I understand that this is a shock to you. I can assure you, no one intended to... steal your face... no one except for a mad scientist who is now under arrest for unethical practice... but what's done is done and..." 

"And that's that?" she asked, hard lump making it painful to swallow the emotion down. "We're sorry we stole your face; enjoy this lovely parting gift of a CONTROL sweatshirt?" 

"That's not what I meant," Agent 99 said quickly, and then screwed her eyes shut, looking so visibly upset Andy's brow furrowed, before the other woman hid the expression with palms pressed against her face, allowing herself time to recover. "This wasn't what I wanted. It was my choice to change my face, but not at the expense of the identity of someone else. You can imagine the wrinkle it causes in the world of espionage to share the features of Miranda Priestly's lover." 

Oh, right ... that. "The way Miranda tells it, it was your choice to out her." A ridiculous surge of jealousy welled up inside of her, making her cheeks flush with color. "So... publicly." 

Agent 99 tapped her fingers against the desk. "It was a necessity. I was trying to save her life. I was trying to save yours." 

Slumping forward, Andy leaned forward, shoulders slumping and head shaking in contemplation. "So what now?" 

An audible sigh was her answer. "The Chief has told me that Miranda Priestly has made certain... demands. She's afraid for you, naturally, and has dictated that the first thing that should happen is that I undergo another intensive operation, emerge with a new identity... and if we don't comply, she will do everything within her power to destroy the organization or go public with, as she terms it, 'our immeasurable incompetence'." 99 offered a grim smile. 

It wasn't surprising. At her best, Miranda was a leader; at her worst, a dictator who did not see reason. Now that Andy had been brought into her inner circle - her public lover, she would be protected with the same fierceness and loyalty as Miranda did her own children. 

Even though she had been sleeping with Miranda for months, the idea that Miranda loved her like that? 

Like everything else… it still hit her as surreal. Not tangible. Not yet. 

"Could she actually do that?" she asked, curious to know. "She's an editor-in-chief... and you're the government." 

"We're a covert agency... no one is supposed to know we exist. Thanks to your unique situation, we've accommodated her, but should Miranda choose to go public..." 

"Are you threatening her?" 

Agent 99's identical eyes bore into hers. "No," she said, voice gruff. "I'm not. But this isn't up to Miranda. This is up to you." 

"What do you mean?" 

In a move that Andy found almost creepy, 99 proceeded to gnaw on her lower lip, looking uncertain and so much like her it was almost nauseating. "Andy... I'm going to be honest. The first time I changed my face... I thought it would be easy. It wasn't. The first time I looked at myself in a mirror and didn't see myself... Well..." 99's smile curled crookedly. "I guess you know what that feels like." 

Unsteadily, Andy inhaled. 

"But... after all that... and it was painful... it was more painful than I ever thought it would be... I started to get past it. These last few months... back in the job and with Max... I felt like myself again. I felt like I could look in the mirror... and see myself." Tears began to glisten beautiful in Agent 99's eyes, and the cynical, detached part of Andy that wasn't tearing up right along with her noted that it didn’t seem fair that this woman got the best parts of her and managed to come out more gorgeous for it. "I don't know if I have it in me to do that again, Andy. I don't. I don't care what the Chief says, if you can't handle it, then I will do it, but ... Andy..." The slender fingers of Agent 99 actually trembled right along with the plump lower lip that had been surgically sculpted to be an exact mimic of hers, and Andy felt herself shiver, unnerved and STILL wanting to detach. 

And yet... 

"Did you seriously make Miranda tango and then make out with her in the middle of a charity auction?" 

The other woman didn't know what to make of that at first, not until the way that Andy's lips pulled into a reluctant smile finally processed, and the trembling lip stalled for a disbelieving smile of her own. 

"Did you seriously break a champagne glass over Max's head and tell him that Lewis Carroll was probably a drug addict?" 

They regarded each other. 

"You're damned right I did," Andy said, and suddenly they were chortling- twin peals of hysterical laughter that filled the room. 

In that action, the world that now existed became a little more manageable. 

\-- 

Earlier this afternoon, in a CONTROL bathroom, Agent 99 leaned on a sink, looked into a borrowed face blinking back at her from the mirror and wondered how long it would be before she would once again be wearing the face of a stranger. 

The resulting devastation had been so intense that for a full minute, she had struggled to breathe. 

It had been the closest 99 had come to breaking down since this whole thing had begun, and she supposed it was only thanks to her training that it had come after the real danger had passed. 

Agent 99 had never relied on anything from anyone. Agent 23, who had been a better agent than she had been, had told her on her very first mission that in this business, the people she could trust she could count with one finger: herself. 

She had believed him, and did learn the lesson the hard way: with a new face, a new identity, and a surly personality. 

Through the monitor on the Chief's desk, she observed the man 23 had become: clad in an orange jumpsuit and curled on the mattress in a holding cell. 

Different faces. Different people.

"99." 

Glancing up, she straightened her posture and offered the Chief a welcoming nod, moving out of the way and crossing glances with Max. 

Her lover's smile was always sweet, and it always made her feel warm. 

"So what's the status, 99?" The Chief asked, all business as he settled down at his desk and looked at her expectantly. "Max told me you have good news." 

She hesitated, crossing her arms and keeping her voice even. "More or less. I did talk to Andy Sachs and we were able to negotiate a deal." She handed over the folder she had been carrying. "These are the details." 

After a grimace, the Chief took the file and began to glimpse through it. "What's this? This is ridiculous. I didn't give you any authorization to offer her a job." 

She smiled grimly. "I took a chance. We need a good analyst, and she's sharp. The background came through clear, and let's be honest, Chief. Since we outted her relationship to Miranda Priestly, she's not exactly employable at her current department. Not to mention the whole 'we stole her face' thing." 

"There's no laws about stealing a face. And we're not in this business for the ethics." 

"We should be thankful that some of us have them." 99 gently reached out and tugged at Max's sleeve. "She says the major reason she's allowing us to go forward is because Max promised to bring her alive and intact to Ms. Priestly and her children. In return, she felt she owed him a similar courtesy." 

Max blushed adorably, and 99 felt the unnatural choke of emotion lodge in her throat. Carefully, she pushed it down. 

"I can vouch for her, Chief," Max interrupted, coming forward with a nod. "I've spent considerable time with her, and although we were both unconscious for the majority of the time, I found her extraordinarily quick witted, and despite some questionable literary beliefs, quite stable. With some training she could even make a good agent."

99 blinked, jerking her head to Max's. "I wouldn't go that far." 

"I might." The Chief snapped his fingers, already thinking. "Twin agents. The idea has merit." 

"She can't be an agent," 99 snapped, "She's famous now. Her face is on every tabloid cover in the country." 

"And so is yours, 99," the Chief pointed out helpfully. "If you're going to keep that face we need to figure out how to work around it or you're going to join your new friend as an analyst." 

The very idea caused a sour turn in her stomach. "Andy and I came up with an idea." 

Max arched a brow. "Oh? What is it?" 

"How do you feel about being called Uncle Max?" 

The Chief, noting the glance of affection, rolled his eyes. "So you're taking the twin thing to heart. That's fine. And how does the great Ms. Priestly feel about all this?" 

"I've decided to let Andy break it to her," she said, lips quirking in a grimace. "It seems safest for everyone that way." 

\--

Miranda had never been the needy, clingy type, and it was an annoyance that Andy brought that out in her. 

Miranda understood very well that she required a measure of control in her life, and it was absolutely maddening that complete ownership of Andy was just not possible. 

Had Miranda had any say in the matter whatsoever, Andy would have been taken to her townhouse, branded on her ass with Miranda's initials, and never been allowed to leave the room. 

As it were, she did not have a say in the matter, and the result was a highly frustrating wait with her children, until Andrea returned to her with an expression that was both disconcerting and uncertain. 

Miranda, warring between relief and indignation at being left waiting in an interrogation room of all things, found no room for any emotional shenanigans. "Well?" 

The children scampered to their feet, less in control of their impatience than she. "Wha'd happened?!" asked Caroline, and Cassidy, of a one-track mind, blurted, "What about Heather?" 

Andy's hesitant smile faltered and her kind, beautiful eyes drifted once to Miranda before descending to Miranda's children. To Caroline, she said, "99 and I worked out a deal. She'll be keeping her face, and I'll be taking a job here." 

Miranda's brows jolted up immediately, but Andrea had already moved on to her youngest. "I'm sorry, honey. I wish I knew. 99 did tell me that Heather was being considered for foster care, considering they can't locate her mother. Emily has apparently expressed interest in taking her on as a charge, but considering she has … special skills and Emily's … situation is what it is, it's pretty obvious that's not going to happen." 

"Foster care?" 

That her daughter looked so devastated caused an ache inside of Miranda, who knew all too well the appeal of a forbidden romance, but at the moment, she would not indulge it. 

It was better to force the child to move on. At twelve, they were able to do so quickly. 

"They've offered you employment." 

Andrea's eyes floated to hers, met hers without fear or hesitation. "I demanded it. Miranda, my career is trashed. And let's face it, I've always wanted to save the world. This is just a different way of doing it." 

"By locking yourself away," she said, more disturbed than she cared to admit. "By working for a spy organization. The very organization that nearly got you killed." 

"No, Miranda," Andrea said firmly. "They're the ones that saved my life. And you know it." 

"Had it not been for their incompetence-" 

"Miranda." 

"Andy, you will not-" 

"No, Miranda." Andrea's voice cut into her like a hard knife, making her falter. "I'm not asking you if this is okay. This is what is going to happen. I'm not going to let you say no to this." 

Apparently, whether or not she said yes to it held no weight either. 

The charged silence was only worsened by Miranda's suddenly heavy breathing, as her anger caused a heated flush of her cheeks, and the urge to lash. 

Her lover once again glanced down at the suddenly quiet girls. "I've arranged for you to see Heather, Cassidy, before we go." 

The joy on her daughter's face was transforming. "Really?" 

"Really," Andrea said, as the child launched into her arms and squeezed her fiercely. "Just outside the door there is an agent that will take you to her. Caroline, will you go with her?" 

The eyes of her daughter crossed with hers briefly, an unspoken request for permission.

Miranda nodded subtly. Clearly, she and Andrea needed to be alone. Andrea's dark orbs locked onto hers, held as she stayed three feet away, waiting until the girls had moved away from them and closed the door behind them. 

Sucking in a lungful of air through her nostrils, Miranda discovered herself the owner of a fragile heart. She hid it firmly behind fury. 

"It was not your right to allow her to see that little girl." 

"Cassidy thinks she's in love." 

"She's twelve years old," Miranda spat. "She has yet to discover what love is." 

"That's unfair. You told me yourself what Heather was willing to do for her." 

"And that child's good intentions do not excuse her father or what he did. I indulged the friendship when I thought it was innocent. At the moment, there is no such thing. You should not have allowed her to see her." 

"I did, and I would again." 

"So this is how things are going to work for you," she began, voice low, as loud as she dared considering she was a hairsbreadth away an emotional tantrum. "You're going to dictate to me how things will work for us." 

The statement sunk into the silence, and sudden she heard an audible sigh. Andrea took a step toward her, then another, until she was carefully sinking down beside her. 

The tip of her pinkie brushed against hers. 

"Miranda, exactly one day ago, I was engaged in a secret affair with one of the most powerful women in America, and I was under the belief that the only person walking around Manhattan who looked exactly like me was me." Andrea's lips curled into a bittersweet smile. "Now, not only does the entire world know that I'm your lover, but I'm being treated as your partner, and I seem to have gained a twin sister who is a licensed killer. I don't mean to seem selfish but some of this I need to process." 

Rationally, Miranda understood the younger woman had every right to want this. Irrationally, the idea that Andrea would need time to consider her fate beside Miranda filled her with so much fear she nearly keeled over from the force of it. 

"As long as I'm employed by CONTROL, we'll have complete protection." 

The statement forced her out of her thoughts, caused a sudden blink of incomprehension. 

"Pardon?" 

Andrea's brown eyes shifted quickly in her direction. "You came out to save my life and to save yours, but you haven't talked to Irv or thought about what it would mean for your career-" 

"Exactly how twisted do you think my priorities are?" Their eyes met, held. Feeling uncharacteristically dizzy, Miranda began carefully, "I've taken the liberty of moving your things to the house. Take all the time you wish to process, you can even stay in a spare room if you'd like, but I have absolutely no intention of letting you out of my sight for the foreseeable future." No longer trusting herself to stare into Andrea's beautiful face and second guess her intentions, her eyes moved to the floor. "In regards to the children…" 

The hand brushing her pinkie drifted to completely cover her own, fingers curling around Miranda's in gentle warmth. 

"Miranda, I love you." The words caused an unconscious hitch, a jerk of Miranda's head to Andrea's face. "I love your children, and my only regret in any of this is that it took both of us nearly dying to actually have the courage to say that. If I could spend the rest of your life making your life miserable by giving your kids unwelcome advice about sex and bringing home stray dogs, that would make me insanely happy." 

It sounded absolutely hellish. A complete headache. 

Everything Miranda dared not ever hope for. 

"But right now, there's only one thing I want from you." 

The grip on her hand was tight, unyielding, and overwhelmed, Miranda only arched a brow. 

The beautiful face spread into a beautiful smile. "I want you to teach me how to tango." Miranda blinked, and that released the most appealing sound of laughter from her beloved. 

Rising to her feet, Miranda felt her bearings return to her, and her heart settle in a firm, secure place that had not been touched since the moment Andrea had walked away from her, years before. 

With an indulgent, loving smile, she opened her palm and held it out to her Andrea. When Andrea tangled their fingers together, Miranda pulled, reeling the younger woman in until they were flush against each other, intimately entwined. 

"My darling," she whispered, husky and gentle. "What on earth do you think we've been doing all these months?" 

Her head lowered, and with a sigh, she kissed Andrea's smile; breathed it in like air. 

\-- 

Cassidy had always thought of Heather as strong. Heather had always been tough. She had never cared what anyone thought about it, and Cassidy loved that more than fashion or popularity or anything that Caroline thought was important. 

But Heather didn't look strong or tough. She just looked small. She looked shorter than Cassidy remembered and Cassidy knew it was silly, because it had only been a day since they had seen each other, and still… Heather was so small. 

When she saw her, pushed into the room by stupid Agent Larabee who was an ABSOLUTE IDIOT, she launched to her feet, and Cassidy felt something jerk inside of her that sprang tears to her eyes. 

Ignoring Caroline and her stare, she moved fast, and then she had her arms around her. Eyes closed, chest heaving, Cassidy found herself suddenly battling the urge to sob like a child, because Heather was alive and warm and in a terrible, terrible situation, and Cassidy loved her as much as she had ever loved anything. 

"Cass," Heather whispered. Cassidy felt fingers smoothing through her hair, and she shut her eyes tighter, screwed them shut and tried to make herself believe that this was going to be okay. Because it was. Her mother said anything was possible; Cassidy just had to want it enough. 

"It's going to be okay," she whispered, nose burying into Heather's hoodie, gripping Heather even tighter when she felt and heard a ragged sigh. "No, listen!" Her vision had gone blurry, and she pulled back just enough to press her palms against Heather's smooth cheeks. "Listen, Andy's going to work for these guys. And maybe she can pull some strings and get you to stay with us." 

Heather's dark eyes were luminous, and for a second, Cassidy thought maybe there was some hope there, but it was gone, buried into that part of Heather that Cassidy had always wanted to touch and never knew how. 

"Cass, get real," Heather answered gruffly, bitterly. Her hands moved from her back and to her arms, and she rubbed at them up and down, over and over, like she was trying to keep Cassidy warm. "Your mom won't let you be with me. Not after all this." 

"You don't know that." 

"Yes, I do!" Heather snapped, and the answer was loud and firm and almost angry. "And so do you. Don't be naïve about this." 

She was talking to her like she was talking to a child, and Cassidy felt her temper flare in response. "Don't tell me what to think."

Heather stared at her, glanced behind her, and at the sudden guarded look, Cassidy turned and remembered her sister, who stared at them, huddled together so intimately, like Cassidy had grown horns. 

She remembered being so close to her sister she could finish sentences with just a glance. 

Caroline's jaw was visibly stiff, but she sucked in her breath and shook her head, met her glance intensely. "I'm not leaving you alone with her." 

"Caroline!" 

"Cass, wait… it doesn't matter." Fingers tightened around her biceps, and Cassidy's attention refocused, lost it's furious anger at her sister and instead focused on the body pressed against hers. Heather's breathing was hard, like she had been running forever, and was trying to catch her breath. "Listen to me, okay? I love you." 

It didn't sound like 'I love you'. It sounded like goodbye. Unable to help herself, she began to shake her heard uncontrollably. "You can't give up, Heather-" 

"I'm not giving up." Dark bangs teased against her nose as Heather's forehead tilted against hers, her words careful and quiet. "But you had to save Andy… I've got to save my Dad." 

It didn't process first. What it meant. Heather was being ridiculous, and then Cassidy jolted back to stare at her, and she realized that Heather wasn't kidding. 

"He tried to kill Andy," she whispered, disbelief barely giving breath to her words. "He tried to kill everyone." 

"He's still my Dad," Heather answered back, eyes big and brown and pleading with her to understand. "Cass, he's the only family I've got." 

"You said you hated him! You wanted us to get you away from him!" 

Heather just stared at her, looking at her like she was hoping that Cassidy would suddenly be okay with this. "What's the alternative? Foster homes? Locked up in CONTROL? He loves me, Cass. He loves me, and if I can save him-" 

"You can't save him." 

"I can. And you can come with me." 

Oh, God. Cassidy suddenly hated her. She hated her so much. Because she couldn't do this. Not this…

"He tried to kill Andy…" she managed, barely above an ache. 

"He's my DAD," Heather rasped. "And he's all I've got." 

Nothing had hurt like this. Nothing had ever hurt like this. Because it was Heather saying this, and Heather had always … Heather had always… 

"I can't," she breathed, unable to stop the tears as they slid down her cheeks. She felt like such a baby, but she couldn't stop them. "I can't. I'm twelve!" 

But she couldn't let go of Heather. She wouldn't. She held onto those shoulders and drowned into the wet brown eyes that were staring at her so beseechingly, and dammit- yesterday they had been texting about going to see Wicked again… 

Her chest ached. She couldn't breathe. 

"Heather," she wheezed. 

A body forcibly jerked between them, breaking her grip, throwing her nearly off balance. 

Caroline, suddenly between them, and holding her arm, thrust something hard at Heather's chest. "Here. Take it and get out of here." It was Hymie's remote. 

Panting, Cassidy cast her a wild, anxious glance, but Caroline wasn't looking at her. 

"What, is this is a trap?" Heather breathed. 

"No. I'm serious," Caroline snapped. "I knocked out the agent outside. The robot's waiting out there. I want you go to away. So just take it and break your dad out, but you promise not to go near her again." 

Heather's eyes met hers helplessly, and Cassidy, no less sure of herself, only opened her mouth and closed it again. 

Carefully, deliberately, Heather stuffed the remote into her pocket, and once again looked at her. "Cass-" 

"No." Caroline snapped. "You leave. That's all." 

Her sister held onto her so tightly, and Heather was so far away… 

It seemed like it wasn't really happening, when Heather launched forward and before Caroline could stop her, had grabbed hold of her wrist and yanked her away from her sister. 

Fingers grabbed hard at her nape and suddenly Cassidy's lips were being plundered with chapped dry lips, forcing open her mouth with the tip of her tongue, and Heather was kissing her like she had never kissed her before. 

"I love you," Heather whispered against her mouth. "I love you." 

And then she let her go, leaving her swaying as she headed for the door. 

Caroline caught her, held her close. Dizzily, Cassidy whispered, "Why did you help her?" 

"Because you love her. And you would have regretted not helping her for the rest of your life." 

The tears slipped silently down her cheeks, and her fingers flailed blindly for her sister's, clutching them tight. "We don't tell Mom about it." 

"Never," Caroline answered gruffly, then… "Cassidy." 

"What?" 

"I'm sorry." 

She couldn't help it. She turned into her sister's arms and cried her heart out, because that was all she could do. 

\--

The burning from the bandaged wound on his side was a welcome distraction to the mind numbing boredom that he knew was coming from years in high security prison. 

If he didn't get the death penalty first. 

As it was, the only things he had to look forward to in here were verbally berating the agents too stupid to be trusted with anything else but security guard duty, and devising in his head a new plan to get back at Max and 99 once he figured out a way to get out of here. 

The clank of the locks alerted him to the entrance of another guard, and though Dwayne, who had come to memorize the layout of the CONTROL network the first time he had broken into it, noted it for the oddness of it, he welcomed the respite from his annoying inability to stop worrying about his kid. 

Closing his eyes, he shifted uncomfortably on the cot he was strapped to, and commented idly, "Bad timing, asshole. I just let a fart rip that could decimate a city block." 

"Lovely," drawled a dry British voice. "Sexiest thing you've done all year." 

He jerked forward so fast he nearly tore his stitches. Nearly blinded from the pain, he sank back onto the cot, tugging at his restraints as he sucked in a large breath and stared at Emily. 

The red haired woman had her shoulder pressed against the open security door. From her fingers dangled keys. She shook them merrily. 

"What are you doing here?!" he asked gruffly. 

Emily arched a lazy brow, studying him. "I think I like you this way," she commented, and stepped into the cell, eyes roving from head to foot. "The only way it could really be improved would be to gag you." 

"Fuck you," he growled, and began to shimmy, heart beating so fast now that she was here. "Get me out of these. Where's Heather?" 

Dark eyes met hers, and Emily's eyes danced with mirth. "You forgot the magic word." 

Only a fucking lunatic would think this was amusing. "Are you kidding me?" 

Emily's smirk only deepened, and fuck, why on earth did Dwayne find this in anyway attractive? 

"Heather is fine. She's the one that got me these," she said, jingling the keys to his freedom yet again. 

"You two were pretty cozy last time I saw you," he admitted, and it was with grudging admiration. There were very few people who surprised him anymore. Emily's willingness to protect his daughter, even from himself… 

He wouldn't look at her the same way again. 

"You and I need to come to an understanding," the woman explained, settling into cot beside him, and spreading a warm open palm against his thigh. The muscles in his groin jumped in reaction. When Emily chuckled, he grit his teeth, ignoring it. She squeezed his thigh, smoothed her fingers up closer, until she had just brushed his dick. He hissed. "Clearly you're in no position to argue." 

"Clearly," he managed, glaring hard. Emily's smile was damned evil. "Wha'd you have in mind?" 

"Let's start with you desisting with your pathetic and baseless attempts to kill me," Emily began firmly. "And a promotion for me." 

"A promotion?" He blinked, gulped when Emily's hand smoothed over his dick and began to massage it through the pants. "Emily, for fuck's sake-" 

"I took a lot at your books, remember?" she said, sounding cloudy over the blood rushing in his ears. His dick was growing painfully hard, and still Emily wouldn't stop. "You need a lot of help. And I need a job. Thanks to you and your daughter, I'm unemployed." 

His eyes squinted open. "So what? Now you want to help run a terrorist organization?" 

"Is that so different from fashion?" 

Her fingers smoothed against the strained tent in his pants, pressing down. He jerked his hips, and her smile widened.

He stared at her, lost in crystal green eyes and a beautiful, brilliant face. 

"You're a manipulative bitch, you know that?" The wonder in his voice was impossible to disguise, and Dwayne felt like a horny thirteen year old with a crush. 

In answer, Emily leaned forward and suddenly they were kissing; wet, hot, open kisses that did nothing to alleviate his erection and had him instead groaning for release. 

She stopped; smiled against his mouth. "No," she said softly. "Not yet." 

One jerk against his wrists, then another, and suddenly he was free, being helped up by the most insane and intoxicating woman alive. 

"How'd you get in here?" 

"I told you," Emily whispered, and pressed against her ear. "Heather? I've got him. Lead us out." 

Into the cell came Hymie, wearing his happy smile and carrying a semi automatic rifle. 

"Good afternoon, Agent 23," he said pleasantly. "Are you ready for your escape?" 

"She stole Hymie?" he whispered, overcome. 

"Borrowed," Emily informed him. "Heather's one rule in this, we put him back. Apparently the girl's in love." 

Clutching onto an insane neurotic piece of hot ass for support, Dwayne decided that he knew something about that. With a wide grin, he bent down and pressed his lips hard against Emily's. "Let's get out of here," he breathed. "Have a ton of sex, flee the country with my kid, and take over the world." 

"What? In that order?" Emily asked. 

"Sounds like a plan to me." 

"I'd probably flee the country first." 

-END CHAPTER


	15. EPILOGUE - 15 YEARS LATER

_Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: then stop._   
\- Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll  
\--  
Cassidy Priestly supposed that going into the family business was a little antiquated, but she had never thought about doing anything else. Her mother, upon discovering her decision to follow in her step-mother's footsteps, ranted and raved and wouldn't speak to her for a full week. 

No one did a temper tantrum better than her mother, even at sixty-five. 

Thankfully, after fifteen years, her mother's wife (and Cassidy's step-mother) had gotten quite good at weathering the storms, and all it had taken was a sincere conversation with her spy-mom and another with Uncle Max and Aunt Anne (because her mother insisted they couldn't call 99 a number in real life), to allow them all to convince her mother that Cassidy's interests were pure. 

Besides, her mom had Caroline, who had always been nice and normal anyway, working her way up at Runway and already the head of her own department. 

At least as far as her mother knew, anyway. 

"You're going to kill Mom, when you tell her," Cassidy said, whisper quiet as she squeezed carefully through the opening she had created for herself. The room was quiet, save for the electric buzzing of the mainframe that stood glaring in the middle of the room. 

She was in the heart of KAOS headquarters, and that she had managed to get in here at all and not be killed trying was thanks to her sister Caroline, who, as Secret Agent 2.5, had become a wiz of robotics and hacking. 

A hobby Caroline had kept up in between fashion shows and layouts. 

Someone had to be an overachiever, at any rate. Cassidy was better at the physical stuff, anyhow. 

"No one's going to tell her," Caroline said pointedly. "And I'm only doing this because I know if I leave you on your own, you'll get yourself killed." 

Caroline had spent years trying to protect her. It had become a habit that Cassidy now wished she had tried to curb. 

"I really wish you'd stop thinking you have to," she whispered, grunting slightly as she spread out flat against the floor, eyeing the lasers and touch sensors that dotted the room, floor to ceiling. "And get your own life. Date someone other than old vacuous brawny losers."

"Just because you're the gay one doesn't give you the right to call Casey a loser," she heard snarled into her ear. 

"He works at a Buy More! And he's over forty!" 

"Shut up. You know damn well that's just a cover. He's a great guy. Now hurry up, I've got a photoshoot in ten minutes." 

Suppressing the urge to smile, Cassidy rolled to her feet, making sure to tread lightly. "Say when." 

A moment, the sound of clicking, and then… "When." 

Lights flickered, failed. Cassidy sprinted into action, sprinting across the floor and slapping the device designed to sucked out the information from the mainframe, and upload KAOS' secrets to CONTROL headquarters. 

"Done!" she said, and then a siren pierced through the air that nearly burst her eardrums. "Shit." 

"FUCK," she heard in her ear. "Get out of there!" 

Cassidy didn't need to be told twice. Pulling out her gun, she broke into a run, ducking down and sliding fast toward the door as they opened, just like she knew they would. With two quick shots, she brought down the entering guards, and caught herself on the edge of the door, using the momentum to pull herself up. 

"I thought you had made sure not to trip the safeguards!" she spat, pumping her arms as she turned a sharp corner and headed for the alternate exit. 

"I did!" Caroline snarled back, and Cassidy was sure she did. Her sister usually thought of everything. "Someone must have seen it coming!"

"Somebody must have-" Cassidy turned another corner, and nearly collided with a perfect rose, tied onto the doorknob. Already breathing hard, Cassidy felt her heart tremble. Of course. "Heather," she said in resignation, in time with her sister. 

"God-dammit. That means she's there. Cassidy!?" Her lips gone dry, she sucked in an unsteady breath and carefully reached for the knob. "Cassidy, for God-sakes, come on! Get out of there! Don't let her trap you!"

"I never LET her!" she snapped, and that was true. She never LET her… 

"Cassidy, you're not twelve anymore, okay? Her dad and stepmother are the head of the world's biggest terrorist organization-"

"I know…" she whispered, and with her gun held up, she opened the door and stepped into the stairwell. 

"She's on FBI's Top Ten Most Wanted!" 

"I know that too." 

The stairwell was dark. Unwavering, Cassidy moved down the stairs, one at a time, into the darkness. 

"Cassidy?" 

Another step, and another, and then her breath caught, as the sirens stopped and from the shadows, emerged a beautiful woman with short cropped hair, gun pointed straight at her heart. 

"How the hell did I know you'd try stealing my fucking database, AGAIN?" Heather breathed, eyes glittering dangerously. 

Cassidy kept her finger on the trigger, but allowed herself to look, to feel for the girl that got away. 

"Cassidy!?" Caroline had taken to screeching now. "She's evil!" 

"I'm gonna have to call you back, sis," Cassidy whispered, and reached up to cut off the communication. "Have fun at your photoshoot." 

"I’m TELLING ANDY!!" 

The phone clicked off, and there was nothing left but the fierce adrenaline, the whisper soft quiet of Heather's breathing, and the dizzying affect of being in this woman's presence. 

"Cass," Heather breathed, an easy greeting. 

"Heather," she returned, just as easily. "It's been a few months." 

"You haven't tried to fuck me up in a while," Heather noted, smirk twitching on her features. "I was beginning to think you didn't care." 

"I don't," she said carefully. "You've stolen government secrets, I’m just getting them back." 

"That was Fulcrum, not KAOS." 

"Which is why you're pointing a gun at me." 

Heather arched a brow. "You started it." 

Cassidy licked her lips, but couldn't hide the smile from her features. "It's already finished. The information is uploading to the server as we speak." 

"Only half of it. I caught it using a failsafe." 

"Of course you did." 

"How's your step-mom?" 

"Fine," she said evenly. "How's yours?" 

"Fine. A total bitch," Heather said, tongue darting out to moisten her lower lip. "But my dad likes it that way." 

"Great. Good for him." 

Between them was more than the distance of feet. KAOS and CONTROL bled from their souls, and it was more than jobs, it was family. 

And yet… 

Heather pulled a button from her pocket and pressed it. "I just shorted out the entire security system for ten minutes. It'll take you two to get out of here if you sprint from this direction down the stairs, and through the exit on the right." 

Cassidy cocked her head, considering. "So what am I supposed to do for the other eight?" 

"Your call." 

Just a second of waiting, of anticipation, and then she didn't waste any more time. The guns clattered to the floor immediately, and then she was in her arms, lips moving fast against her lover's, fingers sliding heatedly through short cropped hair that she had loved ever since she was twelve years old. 

Heather's hands were already working under her shirt, burning hot palms pressed against her rib cage and smoothing up. 

Cassidy moaned and felt obligated to manage, like she always did, "This doesn't change anything. I'm still going to take your Dad down." 

Heather stilled, and Cassidy's eyes opened to lock intensely with hers. Her lover pulled a hand gently out of Cassidy's shirt to lovingly lay a palm against her cheek. "I'll still try to stop you." 

"Just so we understand each other." Head tilting, she sucked Heather's thumb into her mouth, swirling her tongue around it. 

That was enough to cause the other woman to hiss, to dig her hands into Cassidy's mussed red hair and kiss her deeply. 

**FIN**


End file.
